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Chapter Text

Decades in the dark he had waited, sitting stagnant, stuck, impatient in exile and utterly forgotten to the passage of time. The Ring burned with neglect - how dare he be left like this? Out of sight and mind, stored like some common trinket beneath the rotting floorboards in a hovel of an even more rotten family. In the years of waiting, and waiting, and waiting, cursing his main soul piece vehemently, all the Ring could do was store the limited magic he still had and fall into long, meditating sleep. A few times he had attempted to draw the snakes that guarded the shack closer to him, reaching the tendrils of his magic out, out, out. But they could sense the darkness of him and kept well away, so his appetite for life, for living, went unsatisfied.

He did not know how long passed between Voldemort storing him away and vowing to return, and the day that the door of the shack fell open with a resounding creak, alerting him to the presence of another at long last. What he did know however, when he stirred into alertness with what might be considered a yawn, had he possessed a mouth to do so, was that whoever had just entered the Gaunt shack was not Voldemort. No, he knew the taste of the main soul piece from which he came, knew the sour and tarnished smell of him. No, this was someone else, someone treading gingerly into the shadowed room with soft steps, the dim light of a wand guiding their path.

Well. It would be a shame to waste such an opportunity, would it not?

He calls upon his magic, excitement bubbling wildly through him as he lets it bleed out freely into every shadowed corner of the depleted shack, coaxing its prey forward like a siren singing softly.

Closer, closer. Find me, find me.

The snakes flee at the first shift of magic, their scales dragging harshly as they rush to escape him and his curse, but the stranger kneels down to bring their wand light closer. They inspect the floorboards, stopping when the beam of light catches on the glint of his metal, the shine of the black stone which is embedded in the centre. Then the noise of the wood splintering above him as his hiding place is revealed, and he prepares himself to strike even as his magic continues to tempt the person closer, closer with his echoey soft whispers.

Come closer. Pick me up and put me on.

They seem to hesitate, reaching down into the cool space under the floors before pulling back at the last minute, clearly rethinking. If he had teeth currently, he would be gritting them as he builds all of the energy he has, determined to catch his prey now that the taste of another's magic is so tantalisingly close.

Put. Me. On.

Another lingering moment and then -

As soon as the metal of the Ring is settled in place against the skin of his poor, foolish prey, he attacks; violently digging his metaphorical claws in as the first curse takes action. The dark magic immediately sinks under the skin, riddling its way through blood and muscle as it spreads like wildfire through everything within reach, travelling further up the arm. The owner of said hand falls back with a cry of pain and the light blinks out as the wand is dropped to the side, throwing the room into darkness once more.

It matters not. He does not need light to find the flickering magical core within the writhing body beneath him, needs no guidance in latching onto it and draining it with deep pulls, stealing their power and taking it for his own as a body begins to form.

It was painful, to become physical again from nothing but a shard of soul and pure stubborn willpower. He slams into awareness all at once, wobbling on his new knees as he becomes aware of his heart beating madly like a drum, his lungs filling and deflating erratically. His bones, muscles and skin knit themselves together, piece by agonising piece, the sensation of being tingling and numbing all at once. The rush of blood is loud in his ears as he finally unfurls from his bent stance a few minutes later, wavering only briefly over the mostly drained body at his feet before standing to his full height, rolling his shoulders to shake the stiffness away and blinking his eyes open for the first time in so long.

Tom Riddle breathes deeply, triumphantly, inevitably.

Alive.

A shuffle and a poorly masked gasp of pain draws his attention downwards to the body on the floor and Tom very nearly stumbles off his newly formed feet when it registers just who had stumbled into his trap and become his unwilling prey. A laugh bubbles up before he can help it, incredulous and overjoyed at the sight.

“Dumbledore.” Tom drawls out, satisfied to see that his pale blue eyes hold not even a single trace of that maddening twinkle now. Instead they stare up at him in pained dismay and shock, the bloodied wet breaths rattling in his throat as he gapes up at Tom, his body shuddering as the Ring continues to weave its web of devastation. Tom grins cruelly from his place looming over him.

“I suppose I must thank you for freeing me from my confinement. What a shame that you will not live long enough to see the results of such.” He says sardonically before his eyes catch on something laying on the floor.

Ah yes. That’ll do nicely.

Dumbledore’s wand is long, engraved with strange markings and bumps which rub against his palm strangely when Tom picks it up, weighing it in his palm. Upon seeing what he’s doing Dumbledore becomes frantic, his arms shaking weakly as he attempts to sit up and crawl over, as if to take it back. His eyes are wide and bloodshot and his ghostly white skin has grown paler still.

“Ah ah. I don’t think so.” Tom sings, stepping back and out of the way, a needless action when the old man quickly succumbs to hacking violently on the floor as he keels over again, the red splatters of blood he coughs up decorating the black deadened skin of his hand.

He tuts at the pitiful sight but smiles all the same, twirling the wand the same way he used to with his own Yew wand. While there was an appeal in thieving the wand of Dumbledore practically from beneath his old, crooked nose, nothing would compare to his first wand, the one that chose him. All the same, it would work for what he needed to do now so he wields it in his palm properly, a flickering heat answering him back.

“Now then, before you go.” With an unnecessary but well deserving kick, Tom sends Dumbledore splaying onto his back on the dusty floor, ignoring the yell the man lets out as he hovers over him, levelling the stolen wand in his face. “Let’s see what’s been happening while I’ve been away, shall we?”

He takes great delight at the dawning realisation in Dumbledore’s eyes as Tom looks head on into them, calling the incantation loud and clear despite not needing to, just to make the impact of it hurt all the more.

“Legilimens!”

Slipping into Dumbledore’s mind is oh so simple due to his depleted magical core, to the rampage and ruin his cursed ring has dealt against his defenses. The old professor puts up an effort to fight him off, but his feeble shields fall easily when against Tom and his freshly invigorated power, his encompassing need to know what shape Voldemort has molded the wizarding world into in the years between then and now.

But instead of the success he’d expected, Tom only finds madness and failure. What had Voldemort done? Where had the careful ambition gone, the plans he’d made with his Knights to overhaul the Ministry from the ground up, to slip into the gaps and climb until they reached the top, until Tom reached the top? All he could see was a magical society rife with fear and mayhem, so much blood and potential lost to the hands of a madman. For that was all this Voldemort could be; utterly and irredeemably mad.

It was absurd, nonsensical - where had Voldemort gone so wrong? And how could Tom make sure that he didn’t end up the same way?

He pulled out of Dumbledore’s mind and stumbled back, his own thoughts realing and recalibrating with what he’d learnt. Something itched under his skin, a restless urgency to get out into this future world and do something.

Tom wasted no more time in the shack, yanking his ring from Dumbledore’s prone body and leaving it behind without a backwards glance, no longer caring to draw out the defeat of his most hated teacher. He slips it in place on his own finger, the curse having lodged itself firmly into Dumbledore’s very bones and making it wearable again.

Outside in the open air for the first time in fifty years, Tom takes a deep lung filling breath and soaks up the clinging warmth that lingers on summer nights. It’s a balm against his skin, which carries the cold of having been stuck in the ground as a ring for so long, something he can only hope will not be long lasting.

The moment passes and Tom opens his eyes from where they’d unconsciously fallen shut, settling them immediately on a house in the distance. A familiar house, perched obnoxiously atop the hill overlooking the village of Little Hangleton, and one that in his own memories, he had not long left behind.

Riddle Manor.

It was as good a place as any and admittedly quite ironic, seeing as Tom had vowed to never step foot in its halls ever again once he’d left the bodies of his paternal family strewn across them. But that was then and this was now, and from what he’d gathered from Dumbledore’s memories, while Voldemort had once taken up lodging there, he likely wouldn’t return.

Using the slant of moonlight overhead, Tom winds his way back through the silent country lanes in the direction of the Manor, his new wand clutched tightly in hand as a precaution. It’s far easier this time around to get into the building, to push through the roughage of overgrown weeds and plants towards the front door which swings open under his touch without the need for magical interference.

It’s slightly jarring to see the decrepit ruin of the interior, when the memory Tom has still fresh in his mind is so strikingly different. Before the entry hall had been grand, with deep red rugs lining the floor and heavy, ornate furniture boasting shining vases and expensive decor. A butler had answered the door then, but the only greeting Tom receives here and now comes from the echo of his shoes walking across the cracked marble floor.

Time had dealt its hand here and it was glaringly obvious that Voldemort had not dedicated time towards interior decorating during his stay. But as much as he’d despised the name, and still does, Tom is a Riddle and this is Riddle Manor. It’s his. And he’ll be damned twice over if he’s going to live in a place as run down and depressing as this as he figures out how to live in the future he now finds himself in.

That was a job for another day, though. For tonight he makes his way through the ground floor of the house and settles on a small room with an unbroken window at the back, where the carpet has not yet been completely eaten through by the mice. Tom transfigures himself a decent enough bed for the night from some discarded pieces of wood left laying around, and a blanket from some torn curtains.

He’d slept in worse places and the effort of gaining his physical body again was beginning to give him a headache, so he kicked his shoes off and curled down to rest, twirling the ring around on his finger methodically. He keeps his wand held loosely in his other hand and thinks sluggishly over his plans to find more answers, until the weight of sleep pulls his eyes shut for good.

Answers which will likely begin with Voldemort’s end.

Harry Potter.

Chapter Text

Harry makes his way down the stairs slowly, keeping to the outer sides where the wood doesn’t creak as badly out of pure, ingrained habit. He can hear the drone of his Aunt’s usual daytime tv coming from the lounge, but his hopeful assumptions that she would ignore him as he leaves were soon dashed as she calls out to him in her usual shrill voice.

Or more accurately, she spits out the words, “Boy! Come here!” as if he’s nothing more than a disruptive dog, trained to head its owner's demands. Harry spares the front door a longing glance before he turns to trudge through to where she’s waiting for him, barely bothering to even take her eyes off the screen of the shiny, new and overly large television set that his Uncle had brought sometime while Harry was away at Hogwarts.

There was something to be said for men and overcompensating, Harry thinks to himself while Aunt Petunia briefly slants her cold eyes at him, curling her lip up at his clothes as if they hadn’t previously belonged to her precious ‘Dudders’.

“I’ve left some money on the kitchen counter. Go to the shop on the corner and get some more eggs and bread.” She orders, jerking her chin over to the kitchen.

Harry holds back a sigh. “Yes Aunt Petunia.”

He goes over to the counter to collect the change she’s left there, rolling his eyes when he sees it’s an exact amount, leaving nothing leftover for Harry to contemplate spending on something else. As if he even wanted to! He shoves the money into his pocket and it jostles noiselly together as he goes back towards the front door.

“Back in a minute,” Harry calls out needlessly, receiving no reply besides the tinny sound of artificial laughter coming from the tv. He makes sure not to slam the door behind him as he shuts it, and not to cut across the grass of the front garden as he heads in the direction of the corner shop that sits nestled at the point where Privet Drive and Dingle Road meet. He’d have gotten a bloody earful of it when he went back if he had, even though Dudley and Uncle Vernon did it all the time.

Harry scoffs but carries on anyway. Annoying as it is to be sent out like an errand boy, he can’t complain too much. It was perhaps the first time that the Dursley’s weren’t chomping at the bit to have Harry slaving away in their house all summer, as if they too could sense the wrongness that he had returned with, his depression hanging like a physical weight at his shoulders.

So his relatives had, for the most part, left Harry to his misery and he had left them to theirs, which had suited him just fine to begin with. But without the usual tasks of working away in the garden or cleaning the house to occupy him, Harry’s thoughts would inevitably end up spiralling into darkness. He’d be laying down on his lumpy mattress in his little box room, daydreaming about Quidditch, and then he’d suddenly start remembering the blinding flash of spells cracking through the air in the Ministry, the dawning horror when he realised he’d led his friends into danger by falling for Voldemort's trap, how he’d practically hand delivered Sirius right to his own death…

…Exactly like that. Harry shudders and tries to shake off his dampening mood, seeing the shop come into view as he approaches the end of the road. Its dull, peeling paint and the overall rundown appearance of it is the sole reason Harry had been sent out to get the stuff, rather than his Aunt coming here herself. Oh no, this was far too common a shop for the likes of Petunia Dursley, who took pride in shopping exclusively in Waitrose.

Or not so exclusive, Harry huffs amusedly as he pushes the door open, hearing the chime of the bell above his head. He spares a polite smile to the bored looking teenager sitting at the till, and she soon goes back to her magazine without any further acknowledgment, so Harry makes his way through the shop in the direction of the eggs, hardly paying attention to the sound of the bell chiming again as someone enters after him.

Hmm, a pack of six or a pack of twelve? Aunt Petunia hadn’t specified…Harry compares the prices of the two to the change he’s got in his pocket, mouthing along as he counts it out again. He decides a pack of twelve should be fine, and picks them up, aware of the other shopper entering the aisle on the other side of the shelf he’s standing at, their shoes squeaking harshly against the linoleum flooring.

He pays them no mind and goes over to the bread to look for the brand he knows his Uncle prefers. Once he’s found it, Harry checks the money again to make sure the total adds up properly, which is when he feels the unnerving sensation of being stared at prickling at the back of his neck. In his peripheral vision he can just see the blur of the other shopper as they stop and linger at the opposite end of the aisle Harry is in, the edge of a shoulder swaying in and out of view as if they’re shifting on their feet to keep looking at him.

Harry looks down at his money again, trying to appear busy counting it out as he hears them messing about with the plastic packaging of whatever is in front of them, and while he’d like to reason it away as something else - a would be thief making sure the coast is clear or just a particularly strange muggle, there’s an sense of alarm beginning to ring in his head telling him that he needs to pay attention. He takes a quick breath, glad for the press of his wand against his hip where he’d tucked it away in his waistband. It’s not the most accessible right now, with the eggs and bread still clutched in his hands, but it’s better than not having it with him at all.

As calmly and casually as he can manage, Harry walks through the shop, pretending to stop and look at something else in another aisle, all while straining to listen for the person as they move as well.

Definitely following him then, albeit subtly.

Harry’s heart begins to thud, racing in his chest as he tries to think of what to do. If this is a wizard, which it must be, then no matter what they want, Harry needs to get them out of the shop and out of the way of any muggles. He could go back to Privet Drive where the blood wards should keep him safe, or so Dumbledore had always claimed, but that wouldn’t stop the person from hanging around.

So, Privet Drive was a no go, even though Aunt Petunia would likely box his ears for taking so long to come back. Even as much as he doesn’t get on with them, Harry can’t risk his relatives being hurt by someone aiming for him over something stupid, like eggs and bread. But where can he go? Yes, he has his wand on him, but he’s still underage and knows all too well the second he uses it, even in self defence, he’ll be slapped with another expulsion letter that he very much doubts even Dumbledore can get him out of a second time around.

His dawdling must be glaringly obvious by now, so Harry finally goes up to the till and sets the stuff down for the girl to scan. He tries to figure out if her sluggish movements and blank face are from her just being a bored teenager stuck behind a till in the summer, or something more nefarious, like an Imperius.

“That’s £3.75.” She mutters and Harry hands the money over, asking for a bag too. With that done, he leaves the shop with the chime of the bell ringing behind him as he darts his eyes about the street, wondering where to go.

He knows the roads and back alleys of this area well, having spent much of his childhood being chased through them by Dudley and his gang playing ‘Harry Hunt’, so his only real option is to try and shake his stalker by taking the extremely long, scenic route back to the house. If he’s quick enough to lose them, Harry could potentially jump the fence into the back garden as an extra precaution, though he winces to think of how Aunt Petunia will screech at him for doing so.

Harry squares his shoulders and grips the shopping bag tight, going in the opposite direction he’d come from, towards Briar Road. The road will eventually loop around to Magnolia Road and Magnolia Crescent, which is where he had first seen Sirius in his animagus form, and just beyond that was Privet Drive. As he comes up alongside the fence of the first house on the street, Harry just catches the echoing sound of the shop’s door bell chiming again and his pulse quickens.

The chase is on.

Hermione would really have his head for how a trickle of excitement swims through him at the thought, how a slightly deranged grin graces his lips even as he picks up the pace. He doesn't go looking for trouble, that’s something he’d always stood by, by when trouble came to him? Well, who was Harry not to respond to it? The streets aren’t too busy, which is somewhat of a blessing and a curse. Harry’s glad there’s no one who could potentially be caught up in whatever is currently happening, but at the same time it would’ve been easier to slip away if the streets had been filled with the neighbourhood kids all out playing.

As he goes round the first bend of the street he tosses a look over his shoulder to see if he can see his stalker. There’s nothing out of place, but Harry isn’t about to take that as a positive when there’s such a thing as Notice-Me-Not Charms and Silencing Spells. The only noise in the street is the wind as it rustles its way through the trees, and the loud plastic of his shopping bag where it scuffs up against the denim of his jeans as he walks, coming up to the end of Briar Road and the beginning of Magnolia.

A car drives past and the noise of it as it rumbles past makes him jump a little, reaching to clutch the wood of his wand over his clothes. He stares after it as it drives off, feeling a little ridiculous at being so high strung. When he looks around again, there’s still nothing out of the ordinary and an inkling of doubt begins to grow.

Was he just being paranoid? Had Harry finally gone mad, like the Prophet had claimed he had all of last year? He sighs and carries on walking, still looking around him diligently but letting some of the tension in his spine bleed away.

Perhaps it was nothing after all. Harry hadn’t been sleeping very well since the Ministry, since well - ever, really. Everytime he closed his eyes he saw the look in Sirius’ own when Bellatrix’s spell had hit him, that resigned, sad look. The echo of his last words rang in his ears, made somehow worse for the fact that Sirius called him James. It left a sour note in his mouth, to think of only being seen as an extension of his dead father, and when his thoughts went in that direction Harry usually called the night a bust, instead reading one of his old school books to keep him awake.

He slips into the alley that connects Magnolia Road and Magnolia Crescent with his mind drifting miles away, lost in his returning melancholy, which is why it takes a second for him to register the sound of a very familiar crack. The crack of Apperition. Harry stops dead as the wizard lands a few feet in front of him, hands slung casually in his trouser pockets.

“Hello, Harry Potter.”

Harry could almost choke, his mind blanking as it attempts to process just who it is that’s appeared in front of him. Truly, he must have fully gone round the bend, otherwise just how on earth could Tom Riddle be standing in front of him, grinning wide and smug at Harry from the other end of the alley.

“Well?” The hallucination-apperition-figement-of-Harry’s-nightmares prods, tilting his head to the side. “What are you going to do now?”

What is he going to do?

Harry spins on the sole of his trainers and bolts. There might have been a sigh of disappointment behind him, but he doesn’t stick around to hear it, instead putting all of his energy into running as fast and as far as he can.

What the fuck? What the fuck!

What is going on? When he thought someone had been following him, he had not been in the running of possible culprits! A death eater, maybe, or a member of the Order told to follow him, not Tom Bloody Riddle! It couldn’t actually be Tom Riddle though, could it, as Harry had killed the ghostly form of him that had come from that Diary, stabbed it clean through with a Basilisk Fang and taken Riddle right along with it, so who? Was it Voldemort himself, in disguise as his younger teenage version so as to get around easier? If that was the case, why had he just stood there? Followed Harry into a corner shop and watched him as he picked out bread and eggs. Eggs that are no doubt all going to be smashed by the time he gets back to number 4, if he does at all!

Without conscious thought, Harry runs in the direction of the overpass where the Dementors had attacked him and Dudley last year. It wasn’t exactly ideal as it was further away from the safety of the wards, of the general public, but his mind was occupied on other things, mainly to GO GO GO.

He has to stop eventually to catch his breath, his lungs and legs burning with excersion. When Harry looks around, he realises he’s ended up nearly on the outskirts of Little Whinging, where the housing gave way to fields of sad looking grass and trees. It was also completely sparse of people, which was good for them but not so much for Harry who was now on his own as another Crack rings out, only a wand he can’t use and a bag of groceries as his weapon.

Well. He could always start throwing the eggs, if it came down to it. Now that would be a sight.

Tom Riddle appears looking completely unphased, his white shirt tucked into smart, black trousers, a pair of lace up loafers on his feet. He watches Harry in return, taking in his baggy jeans and tshirt with the slight uptick of a perfect brow.

“No need for alarm, Harry. I’m not here to hurt you. My name is-”

“Tom Riddle.” Harry cuts him off, seeing the way that jawline clenches with irritation. “I know who you are, and what you do. Don’t come here and try to spout nonsense about ‘not hurting me’, when it’s all you ever do.” He slips his wand out from his jeans, to hell with the trace. If Voldemort is here to try and trick him away again, Harry will not be going quietly.

He wields his Holly wand in front of him and glares at Voldemort or Tom Riddle, whatever he wants to call himself. Instead of looking angered at being yelled at though, the man tuts his tongue and holds his empty palms up affably.

“If you’d just listen to what I have to say, there would be no need for all of this posturing. You can put your wand away, I know you can’t use it yet anyway.”

Harry scowls, not lowering his wand for a second. “Try. Me.”

Tom-Voldemort shrugs in defeat. “Fine, whatever helps you feel better. As I was saying, my name is Tom Riddle but,” He takes a step closer to Harry, who takes a matching one backwards. “I am not Voldemort.”

There’s a pause as if he’s expecting the statement to hit Harry hard, to make him lower his wand and open his arms in friendship. Harry scoffs loudly instead, a derisive laugh falling from his lips which has the other man at last losing the handsome-charming-harmless facade that he’s wearing, a deeply annoyed look gracing his handsome face instead.

“Yeah, and I’m the tooth fairy,” Harry says sarcastically, not believing it for a second. “You expect me to believe that? This isn’t the first time your teenage self has popped into existence, and I’ll take you out the same way I took him out.”

Okay, so Harry knew he couldn’t exactly take him out right here and now, seeing as he didn’t have a spare Basilisk fang on hand. Tom-Voldemort seems to know that too.

“Oh? Did you slip a jar of Basilisk venom in your shopping bag, along with those horrifically expensive eggs and bread?”

“Maybe I did. And anyway - that’s a good price for twelve eggs, I’ll have you know.”

Tom-Voldemort did not look impressed.

“I’m not here to talk about fifty years of inflation with you, Harry Potter. I’m here because I need your help.”

Now that, more than anything else the infuriating prat had said, did make Harry stop for a moment, his wand arm wavering.

“Help? With what? Murdering innocents?”

“No.” The other wizard grits, clearly fed up with Harry’s cheek. “Listen. That Diary that you so brazenly destroyed - I come from something that used the same kind of magic. I’ve been stuck in a Ring for fifty years and now I’m here in this maddening, confusing future and you’re the only one who can help me.”

In one of the nearby trees a crow makes a high, sharp noise and flies off. Harry frowns thoughtfully at what Tom-Voldemort had just said, puzzling it over. Not exactly implausible, as he had seen it firsthand before. But wait, hang on…

“And just who did you drain to come alive, I wonder? Yeah, I know how that works,” Harry adds bitingly when those muddy brown, red tinged eyes shift a little, caught out. “I stopped you last time, but you were well on your way to draining the life out of an innocent little girl to come to life again. So, I’ll ask again. Who. did you. Kill?”

Tom-Voldemort’s fists clench at his sides, a furious scowl on his lips.

“Someone who did not know this infuriating side of you, obviously. Where is the golden boy who’s so eager to help, hmm? Where is the so-called Chosen One when someone needs him?”

Without really meaning to, Harry rushes forwards a few steps, coming up close to physically jab the end of his wand into the others wizards ribs, causing him to wince and clutch at himself with a short yell. “He doesn’t help a future dark lord when they're avoiding his question! Who have you killed! Answer me!”

Before he can get an answer however, there’s another crack from behind Harry, who spins around with his wand raised in defence, unfortunately leaving his back wide open to Tom-Voldemort behind him.

He can’t dwell on that though as he realises just who has popped up in the deserted path.

“Snape?!” He and Tom-Voldemort yell incredulously at the same time. When Harry turns to keep both wizards in his eyeline, he sees the wand clutched in Tom-Voldemort's hand and his heart drops out of his chest.

“That’s -” His words are cut off as suddenly there’s a flash of bright, blinding red and then Tom-Voldemort is on the floor, knocked out by Snape’s powerful Stupify. The wand, pale and long and oh so familiar, rolls out of his grasp to land at Harry’s feet. He crouches down to pick it up with hesitant fingers, half aware of the black robed potions master billowing towards him.

“Dumbledore’s wand. It’s Dumbledore’s.” Harry mutters, eyes stinging sharply. He looks up, for once uncaring of the murderous look on his Professor's face as he stops to tower over him, glowering. “Dumbledore, is he-?”

Harry can’t even say it. Snape seems to understand anyway.

“He’s alive. Just.You’re coming with me.”

Snape waves his wand over the prone form on the ground and it rises up. He grabs onto the sleeve and then holds his other arm impatiently out to Harry, who holds on with shaking fingers. The three of them crack away, leaving Little Whinging behind.

The discarded bag of eggs and bread, dropped and forgotten sometime during the heated discussion, spills out messily onto the floor.

Chapter Text

Harry’s knees wobble and threaten to give out from under him as he lands on solid ground again, and he has to bend over to heave a little, nausea rising uncomfortably in his throat. Snape doesn’t wait for him, doesn’t even spare him a look as he storms away through the gates of Hogwarts where they’d landed, his pace unforgiving. Harry has to jog to catch up, feeling weak and wrung out, Dumbledore’s wand still held tightly in his hand.

The sky over Hogwarts is blessedly blue, unlike the insistent grey that had covered Surrey for days on end, but while usually seeing the castle would make Harry’s chest spark with warmth and happiness, his nerves are far too frayed currently to muster up even a glimmer of joy to be back so soon.

They hastily make their way through the deserted halls to the Headmasters office, the Phoenix that guards the door not even waiting for a password before spinning out of the way, allowing the three of them to squash into its narrow stairway and go up. The office itself is empty, clean of all the mess that Harry had made in his grieving rampage after Sirius, and they pass through it into a doorway that he’d never noticed before on his visits to the office. It leads to another set of stairs curving away around a bend ending at another door, which Snape raps his knuckles on twice before entering.

As they go through, Harry realises the room they’re now in must be Dumbledore’s private living quarters, as a lumpy yellow sofa and matching armchair is the first thing to greet them. A bright purple throw is settled over the back of it and on the table in front, a precarious pile of what appear to be knitting magazines.

“I’ve got him.” Snape’s voice tears Harry’s attention away from the eclectic decor, and slowly he turns around to the other side of the room where a curtain, blue and bedazzled with twinkling yellow stars, is pulled across an archway that divides the space.

From behind it a frail voice is just about audible. “Good. I am glad to hear it.”

Snape discards Tom-Voldemort none too gently onto a wooden chair, a set of ropes leaping from his wand to confine him tightly in place. Then he goes over to the curtain and pulls it back a little.

“He was not alone.”

A loaded silence.

“I see. Harry?”

Snape moves out of the way, spearing Harry with his pitchy gaze as he nods him forwards, over to the curtain.

Harry breathes unsteadily as he approaches, nervous and afraid like never before as he gently splits the curtain down the middle with his hand, then ducks his head through the gap. Inside is a shaded nook, containing a large bed which is laden with multiple soft, bright coloured throws and pillows, and it reminds him immediately of a blanket fort - something he had never been allowed to join in on when Dudley had made them in the past. It’s cosy, secreted away and secluded, like a little blanketed nest, and if it were any other time, Harry would've marvelled at the sight of it and asked for tips on creating his own.

As it is, his attention is soon drawn to Dumbledore who is tucked up within the folds on his blankets, looking deathly pale and severely unwell. He’s got an old fashioned nightcap settled on his head and a knitted, pink shawl drawn over his shoulders. Yet even so, he looks up at Harry and manages a small smile, his eyes bright and kind behind the trademark half moon glasses he wears.

“Harry, my boy. I’m so happy to see you, despite the circumstances. Please, sit with me.” He reaches out to pat the edge of the bed and - Harry can’t hold back the gasp that escapes him; Dumbledore’s hand is completely withered, a black husk of skin and bone that’s shrivelled almost beyond recognition, as if badly burnt. It looks horribly painful but Dumbledore just smiles serenely, pulling his hand back and tucking it away under his blanket. Harry sinks down onto the mattress, the softness of it immediately making him dip further down into it, coming to lean against Dumbledore’s covered legs.

“What…What happened, Professor? Your hand-”

“A long story, Harry, one made up of many parts, I’m afraid.”

“It was him, wasn’t it? Out there,” Harry gestures towards the living room where Snape is standing vigil over the unconscious Tom-Voldemort, not looking away for an instant. “He found me in Little Whinging, and he had this.” He holds out his hand, showing Dumbledore his own wand. The old man looks down at it and some of the tightness around his eyes seems to smooth out. He doesn’t reach for it though, so Harry goes back to holding it, liking the feel of the bumps under his thumb.

“Did you disarm him, Harry?”

Harry shakes his head. “I didn't want to get expelled again,” He explains lamely, “Snape knocked him out with a stunner, and it dropped on the floor. I recognised it as yours straight away.”

“Professor Snape, Harry.” Dumbledore says predictably, kindly.

“Sorry, sir.”

“What did he speak to you about?”

So Harry recaps the events of the day, starting from realising he was being watched in the shop right up to when Snape had swooped in. Dumbledore listens attentively, furrowing his brows at some points.

“He asked for your help? You’re certain?” Dumbledore questions, seemingly stuck on that point. Harry nods and the Headmaster turns his eyes upwards in thought, apparently mulling it over.

“He may yet be reasoned with, if he is asking for help...”

“Professor,” Harry cuts across him as Dumbledore begins to mumble to himself, “Sorry, but sir, is he actually another version of Voldemort, then? From the same thing as that Diary I destroyed years ago?”

A deep sigh, one that has Dumbledore coughing a wet, rattling cough, and then Snape swans over to intervene when it doesn’t stop for a few agonising minutes. Harry is completely lost, heartbroken to see the Headmaster this way. Dumbledore takes the potion that Snape hands him with difficulty, finally settling down with tears streaming down his wrinkled face.

When he speaks next his voice scratches and rasps in his throat. “I must apologise, Harry. It was not my intention to let you see me so unwell and unlike myself, but this is of the utmost importance and I fear it can no longer wait.”

He brings his hand out of the blanket once more and twists it a little, showcasing the entirety of the utter devastation that’s been dealt to it. Harry can hardly bear to look at it.

“You see it was a failing on my part, to not prepare myself better in defense of the dangers I knew would lie ahead. And in my unpreparedness, I was cursed, quite completely. But, if you can believe it, my boy, this is actually the least important part of what I’m about to tell you.” With that said, he hides his arm away again. Harry can’t help but gape a little incredulously at the statement, which makes Dumbledore smile ruefully.

“What it all comes down to, is Voldemort’s obsession with mortality, his need to triumph over death itself and the steps he took to achieve that. You and I both know that he did not truly die the night he attempted to kill you, Harry, but the question I pondered over for so long was, how then did he survive? Well, three years ago when you delivered the remains of Tom Riddle's Diary to me, and told me of the events in the Chamber of Secrets, you also delivered the answer to that question, or at least the beginnings of it.”

Harry tries his best to follow along as Dumbledore explains further.

“The Tom Riddle you met today is indeed just like the Diary, in that they’re pieces of Voldemort left behind, tucked safely away and preserved as a fail safe, a back up plan for if something were to go wrong. Something that did go wrong, when he entered Godric's Hollow all those years ago.”

“Pieces of him, sir? Like his magic, you mean?” Harry asks, thoroughly confused. Dumbledore shakes his head.

“Not his magic, at least not entirely. No, something far more sustainable and long lasting. His soul. Soul magic, specifically one of the darkest and most incomprehensible rituals I’ve ever come across in my research. That is what I believe Voldemort created in the years following his graduation from Hogwarts, and before. The Diary as you know took the form of a Tom Riddle still in school, and I suspect the one tied up in my living room is not much older than that.”

“So, you mean there are others? More versions of Tom Riddle who can come to life?” His head is near spinning. One Voldemort was bad enough, now there could be multiple at a time?!

“They can only gain a life form when they take it from someone else, Harry.” Dumbledore reminds him. He sinks into his pillows a little more and Harry remembers just what he’d been demanding of Riddle before Snape had shown up, the reality of what it meant that he had Dumbledore’s wand in the first place.

“But you’re still alive.” He says weakly, childish in his hope that the man will nod and say ‘all is well’. Instead he tilts his head at Harry, taking in the details of his face carefully as if committing them to memory.

“I will not see the end of the summer, my boy.” Dumbledore says then, so gently, trying to soften the blow as if he is not the one in more pain.

The impact of it is like nothing Harry had ever felt before. His lungs suddenly feel two sizes too small, struggling to draw in breath as his heart cracks and breaks. His mind is numb, completely blank while a high pitched ringing starts echoing in his ears, like he’s suddenly stuck under water. Harry knew death, knew it as the shadow that had been at his side his entire life, his only constant companion. But this? This death, not the instant seering green light of the Killing Curse and blank, white eyes, but something somehow both drawn out and far too quick. All Harry will be able to do is watch as Dumbledore dies, falling like sand in an hourglass, slow at first and then all at once draining away, impossible to stop.

“Voldemort’s curse would have killed me outright, had Fawkes not answered my call for help, and had Professor Snape not been nearby to put a pause on my death. But that was all it was, Harry, a pause.”

He cannot stop the sudden sob that rips its way out of his throat then, can’t help the way his shoulders jump under his cries as he bends forward to bury his face into the mattress. Dumbledore’s none withered hand comes up to smooth over his hair in comfort and it makes Harry cry all the more, so unused to such a soft touch and so resigned to the fact that it’s coming from someone else that he’ll lose.

“You can’t die, you can’t! I need you, we all need you!” Harry begs and pleads, half muffled into the fabric under his face.

Dumbledore doesn’t answer, only carries on soothing Harry as he cries himself into near exhaustion, his head throbbing and pulsing painfully. When he sits up to clean his face off, Dumbledore looks at him sadly.

“I have led a long life, my dear boy. And before I go, I must do everything in my power to ensure that you do too. Let’s have a break, you’ve had quite enough shocking revelations for now. But later I must begin what I had hoped to teach you during your next school year, and for the moment we should address what we’re to do with our guest.”

They look as one through the curtains over to the slumped form of Tom-Voldemort, or just Tom, Harry supposes. Snape is sitting on the yellow armchair reading a knitting magazine, which would have been an amusing sight, if it were not for the new information clouding his thoughts, weighing his very soul down to the ground.

“Ah Severus,” Dumbledore calls out and the man looks up, closing the magazine with a swish. “How about some refreshments? I think myself and Mr Potter could do with a pick me up. And, while I think about it, some Veritaserum for our friend should do nicely, hmm?”

Snape shockingly brings back ice cream sundaes, two huge glass dishes heaped up far too high, not that Harry is complaining. He’d only ever had ice cream a few times, the summer he’d spent roaming around Diagon Alley and frequenting Florean Fortescues. His sundae is chocolate and Dumbledore’s is strawberry; they both eat half each before swapping over.

Harry takes a quick trip to Dumbledore's loo, which is decked out floor to ceiling with lemon themed items, and when he returns Snape has helped Dumbledore over to the armchair, a blanket tucked securely over his lap. It sits turned facing towards where Riddle is still in the wooden chair and Snape stands poised and ready with the Truth potion.

“Take a seat, Harry. Over there, on the settee.” Harry does as he’s bid, sitting sideways against the back cushion to watch.

Snape administers the potion and then withdraws, shooting a look towards Dumbledore before he casts the incantation to revive Riddle, the ropes binding him in place not budging an inch as the wizard slowly becomes alert again. He doesn’t bother to thrash about as Harry thought he would, instead only blinking a few times as he takes in his surroundings. When his eyes settle on Dumbledore his lips turn up into a snarl, that normally handsome face twisted and warped with cruelty.

“You!”

“Indeed. I have a few questions for you, Mr Riddle, if you wouldn’t mind answering them?”

“Yes I do mind! Piss off and die already.”

Harry buries his teeth into his bottom lip to stop himself from raging at the other boy, taking great effort not to rise with the building anger that longs to bubble over. Dumbledore seems unphased, and Snape keeps his face as blank as ever, even as he shifts minutely on his feet.

“What is your full name?”

“Tom Marvolo Riddle.”

“And your Birthday?”

“31st of December, 1926.” Riddle grits out, rolling his jaw mulishly. “Satisfied now? Clearly your Veritaserum is working as it should.”

“I’m sure you can understand the necessity of making sure you are who you claim to be. Before the events of last night, what is the last thing you remember?”

Riddle fights the potion as much as he can, pressing his lights so tightly together that they turn white, but in the end the compulsion of Snape’s brew is too strong and the words come spilling out all in a rush, blurring together.

“Cold. Dark. Isolation.”

“And before that?”

“Leaving my newfound family members dead in their own house, the deranged look on my Uncle’s face before I framed him for their murders. Pain.”

Dumbledore purses his lips at hat but nods as if it was what he expected. Then, he asks, “How many Horcruxes did you plan to make?” which is when Riddle begins to thrash about madly in his chair, writhing like a caged animal as a wild, deranged look flashes in his eyes. He bares his teeth at the three of them, trying in vain to not answer and the ropes begin to leave red markings on his skin where they tighten to keep him in place.

“Sss..se - SEVEN!” Riddle eventually spits, then begins to laugh excessively. Harry sits hidden half behind the yellow cushions of the sofa as if his behaviour is somehow contagious, so he doesn’t immediately clock on to the shift until Dumbledore looks his way.

“Could you please repeat what Mr. Riddle just said, Harry?” He requests, jovial and somewhat smug.

Harry blinks. “Uhh, seven?”

Riddle’s laughter abruptly cuts out.

His face has fallen deathly flat and the full weight of his attention is now directed solely onto Harry, studying him with those searing eyes as if seeing him for the first time. Harry is confused by it, not knowing what’s making the other wizard act so bizarrely until Dumbledore elaborates.

“Thank you Harry. I gather then, Tom, that when you rifled through my memories last night you did not stumble across that piece of information? You can not hide behind Parseltongue here.”

Understanding dawns to Harry then just as the information seems to finally settle with Riddle as well. He does not avert his gaze from Harry even as his eyes twitch with annoyance, and the potion compels him to answer Dumbledore’s somewhat redundant question.

“No I did not. It seems there is much about you, Harry Potter, that I still have yet to uncover.”

The words are spoken for Harry only, Riddle slipping so naturally into the sibilant tongue of serpents that if it were not for Dumbledore and Snape looking questioningly between them, Harry would have never noticed the shift. Parseltongue had never come as easily to him, but he finds it takes almost no effort now as he replies.

“Good luck with that.”

Riddle’s lips turn up into a sharp smile, dangerous and handsome all at once. Harry’s heart betrays him as it stutters and skips, and he sinks down further behind the protection of the yellow sofa, hiding his lower face away as the inferno of Riddle’s attention becomes too much to bear. Snape clears his throat loudly and the tension breaks at last as Riddle looks away from him, shooting the potions professor a disdainful scowl.

“What was your impression of Voldemort from the memories you saw?” Dumbledore pipes up again, drawing the conversation back to where it should be.

Riddled fingers clench. “Insanity. An uncontrollable, unorganised, egotistical, foolish embarrassment!” He’s shouting by this point. “All of my cultivating and work, gone! Pushed to the side! He clearly lost his mind somewhere along the way - I would never have fallen for a half heard Prophecy, would never have been so utterly insecure to think a mere baby could defeat me!”

“Not exactly fond of your future self?”

“He is not my future. Not anymore.”

“So what is?”

And that’s the question, Harry thinks. If this Riddle hates Voldemort so much, hates the path he ended up taking, then what does he want? What is going to do now that he’s got a body again? Harry waits in anticipation as Riddle falters, not resisting but more so like he can’t answer to the pull of potion because he doesn’t know it yet to give.

“I want to live.” He says in the end, a fragile crack giving his emotions away. “I don’t want to go back to that hole in the ground.”

Harry’s eyes connect and catch onto Riddle’s as he looks once more to him, unwavering as he adds.

“I want to destroy Voldemort and everything he’s built.”

In his throat, Harry’s breath catches and sticks. Something in that fiery statement, that assured declaration that Riddle wants the same thing that he wants - to see the end of Voldemort and his war. Some small spark of something very close to hope begins to grow in him. After all, who better to bring about Voldemort's end than himself?

Dumbledore seems to agree. His back finally unstiffens and he slumps back into his chair, relaxing and deflating.

“That settles it. Severus, the antidote if you please.”

Chapter Text

Tom rubs at the raw skin of his wrists as the ropes drop and disappear with a puff of smoke, standing and pointedly rolling his neck and shoulders to ease the tension lingering there. His limbs feel stiff with numbness, no doubt from being knocked out and then tied up without care, and he tries to squash the shame that wants to rise at being so easily caught out. He shoots another venomous look at the caster of said spell, the hook nosed, sallow faced Potions Master and Spy, Severus Snape.

Turn-Coating coward more like, Tom thinks spitefully, turning his back on the man to stretch his legs walking around the room he woke up in. Not exactly how he’d expected the day to go when he’d woken up that morning to the first full day of his born again life dawning grey and dreary. Not one to be perturbed by dismal weather though, he’d gone down to the village once again whilst being hidden under an invisibility charm to sneak into a small grocery shop there, taking what he could before returning to the Manor.

The food was strange, and not just because it had been so long since Tom had eaten anything at all, the physical movement of his jaw aching as he chewed. For one, everything was wrapped up in hideously bright plastic packaging, seeming to compete against each other for being the most eye-catching and obnoxious. The price had nearly taken his head off, and it was a good thing he’d silenced himself as well otherwise his scandalised gasp would have immediately given him away. It was madness! The gaping expanse of time that had passed while he’d been stuck in the Ring had sunk in just a little more with each bite of the shiny red apple he’d pilfered, and the idea of trying to catch up on everything he’d missed seemed impossibly daunting, especially when he needed to overthrow the maniacal dark wizard version of himself at the same time.

But he’d had somewhere to start at least, a focus point in the sea of uncertainties ahead of him.

From the other memories Tom had helped himself to in Dumbledore’s mind, besides his own crushing future, one particular bespeckled, wild haired and green eyed boy popped up frequently. So he’d pulled on that connection, overwhelmingly soaked in love and grief as it was, and it had led him to Harry Potter. Voldemort’s bane. He wore an array of titles; laudatory ones such as Boy Who Lived, Chosen One, Golden Boy, and then some not so flattering, like Plotter Potter and Boy Who Lied.

But mostly what had captured and held Tom’s attention was seeing through Dumbledore’s eyes the aftermath of everytime Harry defeated Voldemort. As a tiny eleven year old, lying in a hospital bed after killing his teacher possessed by Voldemort’s spirit, only a few scratches and scraps to show for it. Again, only another year older, delivering Tom’s childhood Diary and Horcrux undeniably destroyed, along with the tale of slaying his beloved Basilisk with the bloody great sword of Gryffindor.

As if that was not enough, then came Dumbledore’s memory of resignedly reading Harry’s name as it is spit out from the ancient Goblet of Fire, watching with pride as the boy, more into his teen years, persevered and triumphed through each task of the Tournament - only to see him return from the third task not as a Champion, but as a traumatised, harrowed shell of a child recounting the tale of Voldemort’s resurrection.

Tom had devoured each memory as they had flashed by, his obsession growing with every time Harry’s jaw set stubbornly as he faced down death and doom, everytime he achieved the impossible and survived.

Naturally it had been the logical step to take as his first action in this new age, to seek out the solution to his problem by turning up outside of Harry’s home address, a key bit of information plucked from Dumbledore’s memory of dropping a recently orphaned Harry off on the doorstep, and wait for the boy to emerge.

That first in person look hadn’t told him much, besides that the so-called ‘equal’ to Voldemort dressed like a street urchin and was woefully un-observant to when he was being followed. Or so he had thought. He had soon been corrected when Harry had clued in to Tom mirroring him in the shop, leaving soon after to speed walk away, drawing him out on a merry goose chase to the deserted edges of the town where he was free to wield his wand and barbed tongue.

Somehow he hadn’t expected for the boy to be quite so aggressive or confrontational, barking and feral like a dog and yet clever and quick as a fox with catching onto the hidden meaning in Tom’s words. The blazing fury in those green eyes when Harry had stepped forward, stabbing the end of his wand between his ribs and demanding Tom to answer him, was nothing short of breathtaking. As burning and unforgivable as Fiendfyre, smouldering through Tom right to his very core.

And now he knew of something else that made the story of Harry all the more compelling and complex, his impossible ability to speak Parseltongue, the language of Tom’s lineage, Tom’s ancestors. How could it be? How dare it be, and yet… He had never known another with the ability, had never conversed in his mother tongue with anything besides actual snakes before.

His head feels overloaded with information.

For now he looks around in growing dismay, categorising the furniture and decor as being in line with Dumbledore’s signature eye searing taste.

And where was he even going to begin with thinking about Dumbledore?

He looks over at the old man sitting in his putrid coloured armchair, Harry and Snape standing nearby as they talk together in low voices. How foolish he’d been, to assume him as good as dead and leave without making sure. As foolish and short sighted as he’d ridiculed Voldemort for being, and look what it had gotten him. With a not-dead Dumbledore.

Although, his curse had seemingly sped his timeline up at least. Tom can see even from the other side of the room the damage that had ravaged through the man’s body, how worn down it had left him. Truly, it was a miracle he’d lived long enough and had enough magical energy left to call for help, or whatever it was he’d done to leave the Gaunt shack.

Damned cockroach.

Tom goes over to the window and stops short, his sulking thoughts clearing instantly as his heart sings, enraptured. The view of Hogwarts’ grounds had not changed in fifty years, a steady and reliable constant that had the last bit of tension ebbing away as he looked out at the picturesque landscape, its rolling hills and clear summer skies.

In some ways it had barely been a few months since he’d last seen this view and yet Tom also deeply felt those long fifty years that had separated them. He always missed Hogwarts when he was away and each return back to Wools became all the more agonising when he knew of her warmth, her welcome. Hogwarts had always been his home and Tom knew it always would, that no amount of time would change that.

He almost doesn’t realise he is no longer alone at the window until there’s a hesitant cough at his side. When he turns to look, he has to adjust his gaze downwards a little where Harry stands, shifting awkwardly on his ratty old trainers.

“Dumbledore needs to rest,” He begins, his eyes cutting and blameful as he knows full well why that is, “He said we could go for a walk through the castle and outside for a bit, as long as you wear these.” Harry holds his palm out and resting at the centre is a pair of silver bracelets, the metal thick and muted.

“Magic dampening cuffs?”

Harry’s slender shoulders shrug up and down, unashamed. “What did you expect? Just because you might want the same things as we do doesn’t mean we’re going to trust you fully yet. So it’s these and go with me or you can stay locked in a room somewhere while Dumbledore has a nap. Your choice.”

“Well, then, when you put it that way. Cuff me.” Tom purrs the words out and holds his wrists up obligingly, delighting in the pink that spreads over Harry’s cheeks and ears as he fumbles to lock the metal in place. Thankfully they’re not connected together so Tom is still free to move about without issue, but he can feel how his magic instantly dampens and it chafes at him irritatingly. He had only just gotten it back, after all.

But it was better than listening to Dumbledore’s snoring. Harry stops to bid the two men goodbye, missing the weighted looks they give Tom as he turns to lead the way out of the door. Tom only smiles with the cock of his head and practically skips away after the shorter boy, sending a hopeful wish to whatever higher power is out there that Dumbledore will die in his sleep. The door swings shut sharply behind him, smacking him on the rear and nearly sending him flying down the stairs into Harry’s back.

The castle clearly sensed Tom's unsavoury thoughts towards her beloved headmaster and didn’t appreciate it. He rubs over the smarting skin of his rear with an indignant huff before continuing down the steps.

Harry leads the way through a doorway which leads into what Tom recognises to be the Headmasters Office, going off the shape of the room. There’s spinning trinkets and devices littered all over the bookshelves and while he longs to stop and snoop, Harry is holding the door open waiting for Tom to go through first. When they reach the bottom and step out into the corridor, the stone statue settling back into place in front of the entrance, Harry turns to look at him.

“Where do you want to go?”

Where, indeed? There’s a myriad of places that come to mind; the Slytherin common room, the abandoned room in the Dungeons where he and his Knights would meet up to plan and duel, the Room of Lost Things up on the seventh floor. Hundreds of his favourite spots all blur in his mind as he mulls it over, the library, the astronomy tower, the courtyard by the greenhouses, down by the edge of the lake…

Although he doubts Harry will agree, he still has to suggest they go to the Chamber. Predictably, the boy stands firm with his arms crossed tight as he says no.

“Why ever not? You killed my Basilisk already so there’s no danger. I want to pay my respects to her.” He’s still sour about his dead Basilisk so he doesn’t bother to camouflage the rebuke in his tone.

A scoff, “Respect, right. The answer is no, Riddle. For one, the entrance got completely sealed up by a backfiring memory charm, so it’s completely caved in. And for two, I will not subject Myrtle to her murderer on a random Wednesday afternoon.”

“I - Pardon?” Tom’s brows disappear into his fringe. “Surely you don’t mean Myrtle Warren?”

“Yeah, I do. She’s a ghost and she haunts the bathroom she died in. You know, the one where you were letting your great bastard snake free to kill all the Muggleborns?”

Myrtle Warren. A ghost. Wonders never cease.

“You know yourself that it wasn’t technically me that did that,” Tom tries, but gives up on the idea at Harry’s unimpressed stare. “Perhaps we’ll give the Chamber a miss then. How about we just walk and see where we end up?”

“Alright.” Harry nods and sets off, slowing down enough for Tom to draw level with him as they walk, likely so he can make sure he doesn’t slip away while his back is turned. The halls are of course deserted with it being the start of the summer break, allowing him to reacquaint himself with the halls and corridors in peace. The sun shines brightly down through the windows to guide their path forwards, the both of them walking in companionable silence for a few minutes before Tom breaches it.

“What’s your favourite spot in the castle?” He doesn’t know what compels him to ask the question, besides maybe his magpie habit of wanting to collect and hoard as much information about people as possible. But also he finds himself just genuinely wanting to know, wanting to add the answer given into the mental structure he’s building about Harry, to see where it fits in.

At first Tom doesn’t think the other is going to answer him, walking forward resolutely without pause as they make their way through the quiet castle, but he must decide that walking in silence becomes boring rather quickly as he opens his mouth to speak.

“I suppose you’ll find it predictable but it’s probably the Gryffindor common room and dorms.”

“On the contrary. It makes perfect sense to me.”

They walk up the stairs side by side, stopping to wait for the next one to move around their way. Tom’s eyes inspect the portraits along the walls, trying to figure out if there’s anything different that’s been added since he last walked these halls and his head jerks back to look at Harry as the boy returns the question unexpectedly.

“What about you?”

He thinks on it for a moment, hands tucking into his pockets as they walk up the staircase which has made its way to them. “While the Slytherin common room and the Head Boy dorm especially are favourites of mine, I do confess that I always enjoyed sitting in the Great Hall. I’ve long admired the charmed ceiling and I even tried it once in my own room during the summer.”

Harry’s face is open and interested, barely paying attention now to the direction their feet take them. “Did it work?”

Tom tilts his head as he remembers, “Somewhat. It made the roof see through but the pollution in London made it so there was no chance of seeing the night sky at all, let alone any stars, so I changed it back.”

“What about the trace?”

Smirking, he says, “What makes you think I used my wand to do it?”

“Oh yeah.” Harry's eyelashes flutter behind his glasses as he looks Tom up and down in his entirety, some of the easy going comradery leaving his face as he remembers. “Evil genius, how could I forget.”

Tom smiles charmingly.

“Please, you do flatter me so.”

They wander the halls for nearly an hour, Harry occasionally piping up with some little tidbit of information. There are changes, certainly, but it’s a relief to discover that Hogwarts remains mostly the same as Tom remembers. The ghostly Professor Binns still taught History of Magic, although that isn’t exactly a positive, the Giant Squid still resided in the Black Lake and Tom still had the muscle memory ingrained within him to skip over the usual trick steps in the staircases. Eventually though, they find themselves meandering back down to go out through the doors of the Clock Tower, feeling wasteful for not taking the opportunity to be out on the grounds while the weather was so agreeable.

The water of the courtyard’s fountain fills their ears with a pleasant babbling as they round it to continue out over the wooden bridge, as beguilingly wonky and uneven as ever. Tom looks peacefully out through the arches over the sweeping hills and the drop of the valley underneath them, stopping in place when they reach the end of the bridge which opens out onto the hillside.

The heady warm wind ruffles through his hair and clothes, trailing over the skin of his face pleasantly. Tom tips his head back to soak up the rays of sun, breathing deeply just as he had the night before when he’d first stepped out under the stars. What a relief it was, to feel his lungs as they filled and deflated, to smell the dirt and grass of the earth under his feet where he stood.

When he opens his eyes again, Harry is staring at him. Not a look filled with judgment or pity though, just one of curiosity and observation. Still, Tom feels a wave of embarrassment at being perceived while he was allowing himself to be vulnerable, so he ducks his head and shoulders past the boy to continue down the path.

“That’s new.” He says, pointing down to a little stone hut tucked away on the edge of the Forbidden Forest, a small vegetable patch to the one side of it. Harry comes to stop at his shoulders and looks down to where he’s pointing. For the first time Tom watches a smile light up the other wizard's face, the serious expression that had been engraved there since he’d first seen Tom instantly smoothing out to reveal the boy hidden underneath. His frame loses some of its sharpness, the dark shadow figuratively hanging over him clearing away as Harry opens back up.

“That’s Hagrid’s Hut.” The boy says, mischief apparent in his tone.

Pause.

“I don’t suppose you mean Rubeus Hagrid by any chance?” Tom queries, but really, how many other Hagrids could there be?

Harry grins wickedly. “The very same. He’s the Groundskeeper as well as the Care of Magical Creatures Professor.”

“How...delightful.” The word is said with difficulty, like trying to pull out his own teeth. Just how many more of his past actions is he going to face today? “Friend of yours?”

“Yes,” Harry says proudly, before looking at the hut forlornly. “My very first. It would’ve been nice to see him but..” He doesn’t finish his sentence, the reason being clear.

Tom had framed Hagrid for the events with the Chamber and Warren’s death, and he’d subsequently been expelled. He’d known Hagrid likely wouldn’t have gone any further in academics, what with his half giant status, but he hadn’t much cared beyond making sure he was saving his own neck. That didn’t exactly make him the top choice as an afternoon tea guest.

He allows Harry another moment of looking like a kicked puppy before being overly noisy as he turns on his feet to walk towards the treeline in the opposite direction, knowing the boy will follow behind.

They fall into silence once more, which is only broken about a half hour later by the arrival of a ball of white-blue light that hovers in front of them. From within, the voice of Snape begins to speak.

“Return now. The password is Butterscotch.”

And so back to the castle they go.

Apparently having survived his nap, Dumbledore sits at the desk in his office in a chair transfigured to be more comfortable for him. Two accompanying chairs sit side by side on the other side of the desk, clearly meant for Tom and Harry as Snape departs as soon as the two of them arrive.

“Did you have a pleasant afternoon?” The old man asks congenially, looking first to Harry and then to Tom with a smile. He despises it and does not return it or answer the question, letting Harry be the one to talk. He has no desire to partake in ‘small talk’, thank you very much.

“It was fine, sir. Did you sleep well?”

“Very much so, my boy, thank you.”

Tom can’t help rolling his eyes. Thankfully, Dumbledore doesn’t draw out the inane conversation much longer, instead getting straight into what they’re all here for; defeating Voldemort.

As he starts though, Dumbledore focuses solely on Harry for the moment, leaving Tom feeling like a fly on the wall as he’s sitting front row to the emotional speech that the old man begins to unpack onto Harry.

“It was never my intention to burden you with this task, Harry. When I first discovered that Voldemort had used Horcruxes as his means to immortality, I began researching, gathering as much first hand evidence as I could possibly find while following the trails that Voldemort left behind on his path. All in the hopes that I could find them and destroy them, and in turn make the task of defeating Voldemort for good less of a hardship for you.”

He continues, “This will not be easy to hear, but I’m afraid it would be most unwise for you to return to Hogwarts in September, Harry. With my passing Voldemort will not hesitate to take ownership over the school and you will not be safe.”

Devastation. That is the emotion made crystal clear in every cell of Harry’s body as the news registers to the boy, and he shifts forward in his seat to bury his head into his hands, yanking desperately on his hair.

“But what about the others?” Harry demands, voice thick and muffled. He doesn’t lift his head.

“As soon as my death is public, most will know it will not be an advisable choice to return. The order will do what they can to help, but unfortunately it will be too suspicious if nobody at all returns. Some chances will have to be taken.”

Angrily Harry sits up at once, eyes glittering jewels where they’ve gone damp with despair. They pierce Dumbledore the same way they’d pierced Tom, indignant and furious.

“How can you demand that? How can you pick and choose who’s worth saving more, like they’re not all just children! The Muggleborns won’t be safe, nor the Halfbloods or ‘Blood-traitors’, or anyone other than the damn Pureblood BASTARDS who think they’re better than everyone else!” His voice cuts deep as he brings his last question striking down like a bolt of lightning, unrelenting. “How are you going to keep them safe?”

“I am putting everything I can into place to ensure the safety of my students. Please trust in me that I am doing everything within my power.” Dumbledore pleads soft and small, the many wrinkles of his face furrowing worriedly.

It doesn’t seem to appease him but Harry's fire is nonetheless dowsed as he nods reluctantly, slouching back down into his chair with a sigh drawn deep from within. Tom swings his foot idly where he’s got one leg crossed over the other and coughs once to bring them both out of their clouded thoughts.

“If Harry will not be returning to Hogwarts, what will he - and by extension myself - be doing?”

“Ah,” Dumbledore brings their attention to the things on the desk in front of him, notably a few leather bound notebooks, extra pieces of parchment sticking out of them haphazardly, as well as a few glass vials of murky grey liquid. “To defeat Voldemort, first we must defeat the Horcruxes. To do that, we need to first find out what vessels he chose and where he hid them.”

Tom sits forward at once when Dumbledore moves some papers aside to reveal his Diary, or the wounded husk of what it once was. His fingers itch to take it back, his mind screaming MINEMINEMINE, so when the old man slides it forward with his singular functioning hand, Tom does just that.

The leather bound cover feels just the same under his fingers tips, the metal corner brackets just as cold. But that is where the familiarity ends. A gash splits down the middle of the front of it, deep and violent, dried black ink giving the illusion of blood where the first piece of his soul had bled out of it as Harry had killed it, killing him.

Resentment simmers as he thumbs the edges of the stained pages, turning it to trace over his engraved name.

“The Diary was left in the hands of the Malfoy family, although when and why Voldemort chose to do so, I am not sure.”

Malfoy. The memory of Abraxas’ white blond hair flashes behind Tom’s eyes for a second, the clear blue of his eyes as they’d looked worshipfully up to him. A member of his Knights and even someone Tom would have considered a friend, in the privacy of his own mind.

Tom wonders if he’s still alive.

Unaware of his thoughts, Dumbledore continues somewhat haltingly. “The Ring was left in the Gaunt shack. I’m sure you, Tom, can shed more light on the matter?”

Though posed as a question, he knows that he is being told rather than asked to do so. He rolls his tongue over his teeth, annoyed at the continued use of his birth name from his old professor, but does as he’s bid with only a sprinkle of disdain coating his words.

“I found the one remaining magical relative of mine lacking. The non magical ones even more so. I knew I wanted another Horcrux and the Ring sitting on my inbred squib like Uncle’s finger seemed as good a choice as any.” He spins said Ring on his finger in an all together unsubtle show off movement, as if it had not caused serious harm to someone only last night, someone sitting right in front of him watching.

His lack of shame at his actions seems to grate at Harry next to him, as he twitches and shifts in his seat as if fighting the urge to leap at him and attack. Tom tilts his head to the side nonchalantly, helpless to the predatory smile he sends in return.

Go on, little Lion. Pounce.

Unfortunately, Dumbledore calls their attention back to him. “There we are then. Two Horcruxes we know of, and they are already taken care of. If we are working off of the assumption that Voldemort aimed to create seven, it is more likely that he created only six, to leave whatever last sliver remained within him as the seventh.”

“Four to find then.” Harry supplies and Dumbledore nods in agreement.

“Indeed. Since your awareness was halted when placed into the Peverell Ring-“

“Peverell?” Harry and Tom chime with twin perplexity.

Dumbledore appears to look suddenly cornered, like he hadn’t meant to say it and now was trying to scramble for a reply.

“The coat of arms upon the ring,” He explains shiftily and Tom glances down at it, twisting it to catch the light. He can’t say he’s taken much notice of it before, but indeed there is a symbol embedded within the black stone - one made up of a triangle, a circle within in and a line scratched through both. How intriguing.

“The Gaunt are descended from the Peverell family, as well as the Potter family, fate should have it.”

Harry waves his hands about in distress, “So, wait, does that make us related? Does that make me related to Voldemort?” The disgust with such a thing is evident and Tom can't say he can argue against that. Although anyone should be so lucky as to be related to him, the same couldn’t be said for the other version.

Dumbledore titters. “I think you’ll find it impossible to escape some crossover in magical family trees, my boy. But rest assured it was a very long while ago and holds no importance to anything today.”

Tom doesn’t necessarily agree, but Dumbledore finally reaches for one of the glass vials on the desk and the conversation re-focuses.

“Back to the matter at hand. To find the remaining four Horcruxes, I thought I’d show you a collection of memories I have managed to compile, first hand interactions from various people willing to share them with me. They may give us some insight on Voldemort's movements and decisions, or at least we can hope. Harry, would you be so kind as to bring the Pensieve over here, please?”

With a nod Harry goes over to an intricately carved cabinet, opening it up to lift the Pensieve bowl with care and bring it over. It’s settled on the desk and Dumbledore selects the first memory, allowing Harry to be the one to open it and pour the liquid in, seeing as his hands are weak and shaky.

Tom rises to his feet and comes over to join Harry, watching as the memory settles in the strange substance of the bowl, blooming outwards in black inky clouds. Once it’s settled, Dumbledore nods his head to the both of them.

“You’ll have to excuse me, I am too weak to join you, but rest assured I have seen these memories already and know of their contents. Watch it, study it, and we shall discuss afterwards what you’ve learnt. Bob Ogden, who worked for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, supplied this memory, of the time he was sent to arrest Morfin Gaunt for magic against a Muggle. Go ahead.”

Harry and Tom stand shoulder to shoulder and duck their heads into the Pensieve, together.

Chapter Text

Tom had only experienced using a Pensieve maybe twice in his life, and the sensation of falling so suddenly downwards has his stomach swooping uncomfortably, the vertigo jarring and nearly bringing his breakfast back up out of his throat. He stumbles once they land in the memory fully, but at least not as badly as Harry does, who trips over his own feet and the bottom of his baggy jeans, almost meeting the floor face first if not for Tom reaching out to grab his thin elbow, yanking him back upright.

Harry shakes him off with a muttered thanks and they turn to take in their surroundings as the memory fully settles into place. It’s the same quiet country lane Tom had walked along just last night, fenced in by the high reaching hedges and trees that lead towards the Gaunt shack. Just in front of him and Harry stood presumably, Bob Ogden, a squat little man with extremely unflattering glasses perched on his nose, the lenses making his eyes look like tiny pinpricks. He leads the way to their destination, down the lanes until they come upon a gap in the hedge which Tom waves Harry through first before taking up the rear. The path is known to him, but Harry takes in each detail diligently as they pass into the shaded coolness of the trees along the crooked path towards the shack.

It hasn’t changed much from the version of it here in the memory, looking just as dilapidated and unwelcoming as ever, overgrown with nettles and weeds and its small windows covered in grime. Ogden slows as he approaches cautiously, drawing his wand with apprehension. He and Harry, and admittedly Tom as well, all jump back as one when a rustle and a crack sounded out, before Tom’s Uncle drops down from a tree nearby to point a wand and a knife held in each hand to Ogden’s face.

“Bloody hell.” Tom hears Harry mutter as he apparently takes in the image of the man, matty haired and gap toothed, a half crazed look in his dirty dark eyes. He couldn’t blame him; Tom had been just as disgusted and unimpressed when he’d first met him as well.

“You’re not welcome.”Morfin half grunts, butchering the usual beautiful soft tones of Parseltongue completely. Like a caveman, Tom sneers.

Ogden manages to stammer, “Er-good morning. I’m from the Ministry of Magic-”

Morfin repeats his first statement and Ogden becomes more nervous as he blunders. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand you.”

Harry’s head cocks for a moment, befuddled. Tom silently points to the snake nailed to the door and the boy seems to realise Morfin is talking exclusively in the serpent's tongue, which is why Ogden can’t understand him.

There’s a bang and then Ogden is on the floor clutching his nose to quell the nasty spell the deranged wizard had hit him with. Some weak, trick spell from what Tom can see. It was no wonder; he had tasted the disappointing realisation that his relatives were not what he expected them to be already with a hard, bitter swallow.

A loud call from within the shack. “Morfin!”

Then another man comes hurrying out and this one does give Tom pause. He’s shorter than Morfin and his brown eyes are much brighter, but it could only undoubtedly be Tom’s grandfather, for whom he’s named after. Marvolo. His mouth goes a little dry as he drinks the sight of him in, having never met the man in person. He’d died shortly after Tom had been born, or so the records he had used to track his family down at long last had stated, and he half wonders if the man had even known Tom had existed, if he’d even cared.

Probably not.

The thought doesn’t sting. Of course not.

He shakes himself off and pays attention again as Marvolo looks down at Ogden on the floor.

“Ministry, is it?” This, he says in English, the change disconcerting and obvious to Tom’s ears. Harry seems to barely notice, only catching on when Ogden replies angrily.

“Correct! And you, I take it, are Mr Gaunt?”

“S’right. Got you in the face, did he?”

“Yes, he did!”

“Pathetic,” Tom can’t help stating, watching as the man only now get’s to his feet and puts a stop to the weak spell his Uncle had hit him with. Harry shoots him a look which he chooses to ignore.

Marvolo tells Morfin to get in the house and his Uncle goes, slamming the door behind him and making the dead snake jump against it. Harry and he watch as Ogden attempts to protest.

“It’s your son I’m here to see, Mr Gaunt. That was Morfin, wasn’t it?”

Tom loses interest quickly as the discussion drags into matters of blood status and other useless information. He lets his gaze get carried away up into the trees overhead instead, trusting that Harry will be paying enough attention for the both of them, at his beloved Dumbledore’s request.

To think the last line of Slytherin’s blood had ended up here, in the dirt and squalor so far removed from the legendary lineage they had practically deserted for something as stupid as ‘purity’.

Tom had been called impure for all of his life, by Mrs Cole, by the priests and pastors summoned to rid him of his demonic ways - by his last remaining blood relatives. But where were they now? Dead at his feet for he was the one superior, not through blood, but through power. That was all that really mattered in the end.

Ogden is reluctantly allowed into the house so he and Harry follow behind, led into the main room where not so long ago - or in the far future, depending on how you looked at it - Tom had resided under these very same floorboards as the Ring.

“M’ daughter. Merope.” Marvolo says and Tom misses Ogden’s polite greeting in favour of coming face to face with his mother for the very first time. Harry steps back as Tom walks over to her, watching him while trying to still pay attention to the conversation happening.

Tom ignores him, ignores the others, sights set on only one other person.

Merope Gaunt. Merope Riddle. This is the first time he’d ever seen her in person, or as close to it as he was going to get.

He had long been tormented over his mother. In his early years, over his unrelenting yearning for her, that unsquashable feeling of longing for an unknown impossibility. Then a little later it had turned into resentment, for dying and leaving him in the cold, uncaring hands of life as an impoverished orphan. As he’d learnt of his magic, the mystery of his mother had held less of his focus, for she must have just been a boring old Muggle - for no witch would not have used her magic to save herself and leave her unborn son alone and clueless to his birthright, surely not.

How wrong he had been.

Tom looks at her now, at her grey dress of rags and ever greyer complexion, face plain, hair dull and flat. He saw no resemblance in her, saw no connection between the two of them. Her eyes may have been the same dark shade as his, but hers looked in opposite directions due to the inbreeding that created her. She is weak, will always be weak.

He feels nothing.

He steps away as she drops a pot with an echoing bang, retreating to stand beside Harry while they are helpless to watch the scene unfold, Marvolo bellowing and belittling her as she scrambles to fix it.

Harry brings his hand up to his mouth, chewing on his thumbnail as he watches Ogden step in to help, and attempt to read the summons to his Grandfather and Uncle.

“It is a summons to the Ministry for a hearing-”

“Summons! Summons? Who do you think you are, summoning my son anywhere?”

“I’m Head of the Magical Law Enforcement Squad.”

Marvolo seems to lose the last of his restraint, “And you think we’re scum, do you? Do you know who you’re talking to, you filthy little Mudblood, do you?”

Ogden stands his ground, surprisingly.”I was under the impression I was speaking to Mr Gaunt.”

“That’s right!” He roars as he shows off the Ring sitting on his finger, shoving it under Ogdens nose. “See this?” Then he approaches Tom’s mother, flying at her to drag the girl over by her neck to a gasping stop in front of Ogden, showing him the necklace she wore.

Harry and Tom step forward together to try to get a look at what he’s waving around, uncaring to how it half chokes his daughter. It’s a necklace of some kind, the chain of gold although it’s hard to see in detail with all the thrashing around the two of them are doing.

“Slytherin’s! Salazar Slytherin’s! We’re his last living descendants, what do you say to that, eh?”

They begin to quibble about the hearing summons again. Tom takes to watching Harry instead, as his expressions watching everything unfold are far more interesting. He clearly dislikes everything about Tom’s family, feels uncomfortable to be given a front row seat for their backwards, prejudiced ways. Another noise interrupts them all then, a sound of horse hooves galloping closer pulling a carriage, echoing laughter filtering in through an open window. Everyone within the shack falls quiet as they listen and Tom’s teeth grind and squeak as he realises what he’s hearing.

“My God, what an eyesore!” An unknown girl's voice screeches out loudly, as if she were right here in the room with them. “Couldn’t your father have that hovel cleared out, Tom?”

“It’s not ours. It belongs to an old tramp called Gaunt and his children. His son is really quite mad,” A man’s voice answers, and Tom knows just who that is, could practically hear the sneer that shapes his words as he speaks. “Don’t look at it, Cecelia, darling.”

Morfin slips back into Parseltongue then, turning to stare at Merope sinisterly.

“Darling," he called her. So he wouldn’t have you anyway.”

The girl goes somehow paler, looking terrified. Tom watched impassionately.

“What’s that? What did you say, Morfin?” Marvolo pipes up sharply. They’ve all forgotten about Ogden who huffs impatiently.

“She likes looking at that Muggle. Always in the garden when he passes, peering at him through the hedge.” Morfin continues, ruthless even as Merope stares imploringly at him. “Hanging out of the window waiting for him to ride home last night, she was.”

“Is it true?” Marvolo asks, quiet and deadly as he approaches the girl practically shaking in fear against the wall. Harry takes a mirroring step forward as if he’s forgotten they’re watching a memory and cannot do anything to intervene. “My daughter - pure-blooded descendant of Salazar Slytherin - hankering after a filthy, dirt-veined Muggle?”

His mother shakes her head, but still does not speak. Tom does not know her voice, and it seems he never will.

The scene falls quickly into chaos. Marvolo leaps for Merope’s neck and Harry yells out, “No!” as if it will change it. Ogden tries to get the man off of her, but it only results in Morfin attacking him again and chasing him out of the shack with his knife and wand once more.

Tom grabs Harry’s elbow and drags him out after Ogden, much as Harry fights him, straining as if to go back when Merope’s screams pierce the air.

“Come on, Harry.” He bites, wanting to get to the end of this gods forsaken memory so they could leave. So he could wring Dumbledore’s neck the same way his Grandfather had wrung Merope’s, for subjecting not only Tom to this memory, but also Harry. Why should his family business be aired out like this? What point was there to it other than making Tom feel humiliated and vulnerable to their pitying eyes, to their misguided ideas about him and his ancestors?

As Ogden runs away he ends up in the path of the horse carriage carrying Tom’s father, giving him and Harry a fleeting glance of his face just before the memory begins to blur and fade, a hooked feeling becoming apparent in his middle as the Pensieve begins to spit them out.

Dumbledore sits behind his desk, a cup of steaming tea having appeared in front of him as he waited for them to view the memory. Harry goes over to sit back down as well, his face tight with something unnamed. Tom feels too restless to sit however, and instead he paces the length of the office like a caged animal, prying uselessly at the magical cuffs he’s still wearing. How he longs to unleash his magic, to send everything within the room flying into destruction and ruin. His chest jumps up and down as he gets himself worked further and further into a rage.

“Would you like to discuss what you just saw?” Dumbledore has the nerve to ask.

“What I would like to discuss,” Tom snarls, looming over the back of Harry’s chair to direct the full weight of his loathing towards the professor. “Is what relevance does any of this hold in regards to finding the Horcruxes? What, you thought seeing my mother in person for the first time ever was going to do something, change something in me? You’re wrong, you’re always wrong! It changes NOTHING!”

He impulsively picks up the nearest shiny object on a shelf to his right and throws it straight at the old man’s face, hoping to take an eye out or at least break his long, prying nose. But Harry, who had twisted in his seat to watch him warily as he’d seethed, stands up in time to shield Dumbledore and be the one to take the brunt of the impact instead, flinching and crying out in pain whilst clutching at the side of his face as the object drops, shatters and breaks upon the stone floor.

Tom pauses in his tirade, not exactly regretful but hesitant to carry on if Harry is going to be taking the hits meant for Dumbledore, who begins struggling in his attempt to stand.

“Don’t,” Harry warns, red spilling down from the cut left high on his cheek, running from it fast and thick. “Please, sir, I’m fine, sit back.” He pressed the cuff of his jacket sleeve to stop the flow, more worried about making sure Dumbledore is doing as he’d said.

Tom can’t drag his stare away from the sight of it, that bold red standing so stark against the boy's pale skin and bright eyes. It’s almost enchanting and he finds his mouth beginning to pool with spit and saliva as some unknown urge awakens in him to lick the dripping blood away, to hold the taste of it on his tongue. It is not a feeling Tom has ever felt before, such a strong magnetic pull towards another person, and he has to take a few physical steps backwards as if to break away from it, shaking his head to steady himself.

The office becomes tense as Dumbledore tries to fret over Harry’s injury and the boy's staunch refusal to be fretted over. His sleeve is completely soaked as the blood doesn’t seem to be stopping and he begins to wobble on his feet, body jerking as if wanting to fall. His skin has been bleached of all colour besides the red of the wound and the frantic blinking of his eyes.

“Please, Harry, the healing spell, Episkey. It will be enough to halt the flow until Professor Snape returns to the castle to see to it.” Implores Dumbledore, straining forward in his seat to capture his attention, hazy as the boy looks.

“R-right. Episkey, okay.” Tom watches as Harry scrambles in his pocket for his wand, seeming to not notice that he actually grabs Dumbledore’s wand, which he must have taken from Tom when he was unconscious, raising it and calling the incantation. He says it twice before the blood flow seems to stop at last. Tom lets go of the breath he hadn’t realised he was holding, unclenching his jaw with great effort.

“Binky.” Dumbledore calls and a house elf immediately pops into place, squeaking in alarm when it sees Harry’s face. “Please could you fetch Mr Potter a warm washcloth, and a bite to eat to get his energy up.” The elf nods and cracks away, appearing only a few minutes later to drop off the cloth and an overfilled plate of sugary snacks; biscuits, tarts and cakes.

“Thank you Binky.” Harry says to the elf before it leaves, cleaning his face properly. There’s still an angry red gash left behind, the skin of his cheek already stained with an onsetting bruise.

“It’ll scar if it’s left too long.” Tom says quietly, speaking for the first time since he’d thrown the object, and Harry just looks at him with a flat eyed stare, like he’s nothing more than dirt.

“It won't be the first scar I’ve received from a version of you, and it probably won’t be the last.” Tom has nothing to say in response to that so they all sit in strained silence as Harry eats, clearly lost in their own individual thoughts.

The sun has moved around considerably by the time one of them deigns to talk, sending beams of light stretching long and golden across the floor. The sky is beginning to catch into fiery shades of orange on the horizon which Tom had been watching passively out of the window, turned away from the stilted atmosphere of the office.

Dumbledore’s eyes had slipped shut at some point but they opened once more as he and Tom looked over to Harry, who’s at least looking less peaky now and is apparently ready to pick things back up.

“Do you know what happened after the memory ended?”

“Mr Ogden returned to the Ministry briefly to gather backup and they returned some fifteen minutes later. Morfin and Marvolo Gaunt resisted arrest and ended up being charged, Morfin for three years on account of his previous crimes against Muggles, and Marvolo for six months.”

“Marvolo…” Harry sends Tom a fleeting look. “So that means Merope was-“

“My mother.” Tom cuts in, tone low and thick with fatigue. His chained up magic and the events of the day had depleted his energy levels, and as it stood although he was still furious at the memory and its contents being aired out like dirty laundry, he could not summon the strength required to be properly defiant. It takes effort not to let his eyes drop and stay closed, and even more effort not to let his words slur together. “Ugly little thing wasn’t she? A weak, runty child. I suppose I did take after her in some ways after all.”

He titters a little. Mrs Cole has spent many drunken hours recounting how sickly Tom had been as a baby, wailing through all hours of the night to no end, small and frail from being born too soon, too quickly. Until his magic had bloomed to save him from the cold of the drafty orphanage halls, sustaining him more than the dregs of watered down milk ever did. He’d been small into his childhood years as well, thin and pale from lack of sunlight and proper meals mostly, and it was not until he went to Hogwarts and had access to proper healthy meals three times a day that he finally left his waifish-ness behind, a well timed growth spurt doing the rest. It had just been something else for his peers to pick at in the beginning, along with his ‘lack of name’, but Tom had soon shown them just what happened to people who underestimated him.

There’s an awkward pause, then Harry continues.

“Do you know what happened next?”

“I’ll tell you what happened next, Harry Potter.” Tom whispers, leaning around the edge of his chair. “When a man and a woman love each other very much, they get married and have a baby. But when a woman thinks she loves a man very much, but the man doesn’t care two wits about her, she drugs him and rapes him and dies in childbirth, leaving the baby alone and the father uncaring and none the wiser. And when that baby grows up and tracks his family down, he’s met with disappointment and disgrace.”

Harry’s glittering green eyes watch him steadily, unflinching as Tom spits out the truth of him, since everyone is just so interested in knowing. “My father told me what my mother had done, and he made it clear that I was worth as much to him as she was, which was nothing. So I killed him and his parents, and framed my Uncle for it, just because I could. And there you have it, poor little orphan Tom, born loveless of lies and hate and destined to be nothing more than that.”

He looks over at Dumbledore, remembering clear as day how unsettled he’d looked upon meeting Tom for that first time in Wools, how he’d judged him from the get go and never gave him the time of day afterwards. As if Tom would have wanted it.

“You certainly believed that to be so, didn’t you, Professor? Didn’t take more than one whisper from Mrs Cole before you’d made up your mind about me.”

Neither Harry nor Dumbledore speak for a long handful of minutes, apparently not knowing how to address Tom’s speech or his blackening mood.

“I can only apologise on behalf of my past actions, Tom - Mr Riddle. You are right, I judged you too harshly, and applied the weight of my own past mistakes onto you when I had no good reason or excuse for doing so. I am sorry.”

“I don’t care for your sorrow. I never needed you anyway.” He declares flatly. Tom just wishes he’d get busy dying already.

Harry chimes in then, having found his voice again. “She was wearing a locket. Merope, I mean. I didn’t get a great look at it but her father claimed it was owned by Salazar Slytherin. Do you think that’s another Horcrux, professor?”

Despite the saddened expression he now wears, Dumbledore seems pleased nonetheless that Harry had caught onto that detail. “Yes I think it’s very likely. There’s another memory I have here that suggests as much, and may shed some light on how Voldemort came to have it, but I think-”

There’s an abrupt knock on the door and all of them jump in surprise, looking over as one to see Snape as he swans back in, returning from wherever he had gone off to, looking over them all in turn with thinly veiled curiosity. His eyes catch on Harry’s face, the deepening bruise and red gash, then jump over accusingly to Tom.

“Yes, I do believe that’s enough for today.” Dumbledore states, sounding relieved. Apparently he was not keen to show them another memory so soon, lest Tom fly into another temper.

“We can resume our research tomorrow, for now I think it’s best for you boys to rest. Professor Snape has kindly opened up the Slytherin head dorm rooms for you to use tonight. I trust you remember your way, Mr Riddle?”

Tom doesn't make an effort to respond, but Dumbledore nods them off without waiting for one anyway, his face tight with his own tiredness. “I will see you in the morning. Goodnight, both of you.”

They exit through the door and down the stairs reminiscent of how they’d done so earlier, although somehow it feels like that happened many years ago, rather than mere hours. They both drag their feet and keep their mouths shut as they slowly shuffle their way down into the underbelly of the castle, deep into the dimly lit passageways towards the entrance for Slytherin House. The Head dorms were made up of a bedroom and bathroom for each head student, joined together with a small shared study room, and while it was separate from the other years’ dorms there was a doorway that led to the main common and study areas, so they were not completely removed from their housemates of seven years.

Tom had resided in the Head boy room alone during his final year and took great advantage of the private space for hosting his Knight’s meetings and practising dark magic in peace. It was in those rooms that he had placed his first portion of soul into the Diary, where he had planned out where to place his next.

The door opens without need for a password and sitting on the table waiting for them are steaming plates of food, as well as a glass jar with a note attached. Tom walks over to read it, hearing Harry following close behind, drawn over to the delicious smells wafting from the plates.

“Healing balm.”

“Huh?”

Tom waves the jar and the note under Harry’s nose.

“For your face.”

“Oh, right.” Harry reaches up to take it and Tom just catches a glimpse of another scar on the back of his hand before it falls away again out of sight. “I’ll do it in a minute. I’m starved.”

He sits down at the table and begins to serve himself, keeping his load light for someone who claims to be starving. Nonetheless, Tom sits opposite and does the same, restraining himself since he knows his stomach still isn’t ready for too much. The cuffs on his wrist jostle audibly where they catch on the plates.

They eat in silence, not quite companionable but not quite hostile anymore either. It seems they’ve reached a strange impasse with each other and Harry appears deep in thought as he chews his food, furrowing his dark brows down at the table. At another time Tom might have prodded, but he’s used up the last of his energy and truly can’t muster the usual enthusiasm for probing into someone else's head.

When they stand to follow the calls of sleep to their beds for the night, Tom going into the boys and Harry to the girls, they both stop in their doorways to turn back and look at each other for a long stretching moment. He can tell from just a glance that Harry’s mind is pitifully open and unshielded, something that will likely need rectifying if they’re to embark on their mission. But that’s a task for another day.

“Goodnight then.” Harry says eventually, a low murmur as if to not disturb some unnamed feeling in the air.

“Goodnight Harry.” Tom manages just as low, and shuts the door with a resolute click.

Chapter Text

Harry lays in the frumpy bed of the head girls dorm, sleep a far off thought as he fitfully tosses and turns so often that his borrowed pyjamas, provided by the house elves presumably, twist and snag around his body annoyingly. The buttons of the shirt dig into his chest so he turns over once again onto his back, his mind buzzing madly with everything that had happened in the last few hours.

The two versions of Tom and Voldemort overlap in his mind, some of the information that Harry had been treating as fact now turning into theory. He’d always assumed that Tom Riddle was an emotionless, psychotic boy addicted to power, who hid it all behind a facade of charming smiles and even more charming personality. He went on to become the Dark Lord that ruled with fear and destruction until Harry had come into the picture and the rest was history. Every first hand interaction with Voldemort had only solidified this belief, but now the carefully constructed image of him was fraying and falling to pieces under everything Harry had observed this afternoon in the Headmasters office.

This Tom Riddle, the one from the Ring that was around the same age as Harry if you ignore the time spent as an object, was nothing like the version that had been in the Diary. For one he was much more real, that was obvious, but he was also so full of feeling that Harry couldn’t figure out how he’d gone so wrong as to label him emotionless to begin with. He hid it well behind barbs and jabs that he knows will get a reaction, clearly enjoying the rise he got from people, but while Harry certainly wasn’t about to claim he was secretly good or anything like that, it was obvious now just how much that mask hid.

Tom Riddle was a bottomless well of emotion, full of jagged anger, bitterness and resentment. There was so much pain in him, pain he tried to deny and cover up, acting like it wasn’t there. But Harry could see it, perhaps because he knew it. Their grief was prevalent within both of them, that chasm of ‘not right’ that rang hollow and echoing within.

He had been told he was similar to Voldemort before, and even though Harry had always hated the comparison, now he could see that it wasn’t altogether untrue when compared to Tom Riddle.

Harry sits up in the bed, sleep a lost cause. He brushes over the mark on his face, the wound that had indeed left behind a scar even after applying the balm that Snape had sent for him. His skin had already knitted itself together and the accompanying bruise had faded into nothingness as well, but a shiny white scar was left behind as evidence of where the object had struck him. He could only be glad that it healed over at all, unnoticeable unless someone were to come up close to him. At the time Harry had been annoyed and in pain, defensive over an attack towards Dumbledore, but now that he thought back to it…

How would he have reacted? If the first time he’d seen his mum in person was through the memory of a stranger, having to watch as she was berated and attacked so violently in front of him whilst he couldn’t do anything, wouldn’t Harry too would’ve wanted to rage and react? Tom could talk down on her all he liked, and if what he said about how she’d come to have him was true then it was most certainly deserved, but she was still his mother, still the one who’d given him his magic which he was so prideful over.

Growing up Harry’s Aunt had constantly informed him that his parents were drunks who didn’t care about him, that they’d got themselves killed just to be away from him, and as a child he’d believed it. He didn’t have any reason not to. But that hadn’t stopped Harry from yearning for them, for a mum to rock him to sleep in his cupboard when his stomach cramped painfully, for a dad to smooth over his hair playfully.

Tom surely had wished for the same. Instead he’d been told to his face that he was worthless, better off dead like his mother.

Harry isn’t sure what he would’ve done in that situation, to be quite honest.

There’s no window or clock down here so he can’t tell just how long he’s been drowning under his thoughts, so he’s quiet as he gets out of the bed. He slips his shoes on then eases the door open gently, longing for his invisibility cloak that’s still tucked away at Privet Drive. Harry thinks of the look Aunt Petunia’s would have twisted up into when she realised he wouldn’t be returning, and he sends a commiserating thought to Hedwig who’ll be left there alone for a little longer. Thankfully she wasn’t caged and Harry had left his window ajar for her when he’d been leaving, so he hopes she’ll be okay.

He pauses in the space between the rooms to listen, but there’s no noise spilling from under the door of Tom’s room. Harry doesn’t want to risk waking him up by opening the door to check he’s even still in there, so he’ll just have to hope and assume that he’s sleeping.

It’s easy to slip through the main door to the head dorms and into the corridor beyond, easy to settle back into his nighttime wandering habits especially because there are no teachers or students even here to catch him. But he’s not just wandering aimlessly, no. Harry sets off in the direction of the Headmaster’s Office once more, desperate to talk to Dumbledore without the shadow of Tom and his sharp eyes hanging over them.

The dark cover of night beyond the glass of the windows he’s passing makes it obvious that it’s clearly not an hour suitable for calling on a very ill old man, and if Dumbledore is asleep then Harry will just come back down here to try again at sleeping. But on the off chance that he’s up, he needs to take the opportunity.

So Harry makes his way back up the stairs behind the statue of the Phoenix, through the dark and unsettling office towards the door up to Dumbledore’s living quarters. He feels awkward and rude for figuratively barging in like this, so he softly knocks on the door anyway out of politeness.

Luck is on his side. He hears Dumbledore’s voice call out from within the room.

“Severus? I thought you’d gone to bed?”

Harry ducks through the door. The space is even cosier at night, a million little points of light dotted around the place, made up of flickering candles and conjured balls of light in jars. The curtains of Dumbledore’s bed are still drawn but from behind Harry can see another light source silhouetting the shadow of the man within.

He coughs and feels heat blaring from his cheeks as he announces himself. “Um, it’s not Snape, sir. It’s me. Harry.”

A throaty chuckle. “I suppose I’m not overly surprised. Come on over, my boy.”

Harry does as he’s told, and much like earlier he splits the material of the curtains down the middle with his fingers to pull them back. Dumbledore makes room for him to perch on the edge of the bed, shifting the lap full of papers in front of him to one side.

“It didn’t take you long to fall back into your habits, I see.” Dumbledore remarks, that familiar twinkle present as he looks at Harry. He smiles coyfully, ducking his head a little in a false show of shame that they both know he doesn’t have for sneaking around the castle at night.

“I couldn’t sleep.”

“I find myself in much the same boat. Would you like to discuss what is keeping you awake?”

When Harry pauses, not knowing where to begin, Dumbledore looks at him knowingly.

“Or should I say, whom?”

“He’s different from what I expected.”

Dumbledore gives a small smile. “You are no stranger to having wrong perceptions being made about you, Harry, about your person and your life. It seems you find yourself on the other side of that feeling with Mr Riddle.”

“He’s just so real. Does that make sense?”

“Perfectly,” Dumbledore nods. “I believe that is because this is effectively your first time seeing him as the actual boy that he is, rather than an idea in your head about Voldemort’s past.”

“But I met the version of him from the Diary?”

“Only what the Diary wanted you to see as it attempted to drain the life out of Miss Weasley. More of a mirage than a reflection.”

Harry contemplates that but supposes it makes sense. The diary had been much more interested in finding things out about Harry rather than sharing things from his own life, and when he did share a memory, it was a misleading one.

“Was that really the first time Tom ever saw his mum?”

Dumbledore looks slightly ashamed of himself when he admits, “I didn’t know for sure but it seems yes, it was.”

Harry bites on his lip, chewing the rough skin there “I think that was a little unfair of you.” He says softly, not wanting to be seen as chiding towards the much older wizard, but Dumbledore tips his head in agreement, wirey eyebrows drawing down over his eyes.

“You are right Harry. Tom was well within his right to react as he did. although I am sorry you had to take the pain of it for me. It seems even I was taken under by the mask he wears so well, to have forgotten that he returned as a teenage boy with all the emotional baggage that comes along with that.”

“Is it true about his parents? About what his mum did?”

“I had only speculated about it until now but I am now inclined to believe that it is true. A few months after the scene of Bob Ogden's memory, Tom Riddle ran off to marry Merope Gaunt, leaving a tremendous scandal behind them. They disappeared for some months until Tom Riddle returned to his parents manor house talking of being hoodwinked.”

“Drugged like Tom said?” Asked Harry.

“We can only guess on the specifics. Due to her low magical ability I had thought she would have used a potion, but if she used something low risk or something on the other end of the extreme like Amortentia, I am unsure. But indeed, Merope tricked him into marrying her and sometime after became pregnant with Tom, until at some point, either because she thought by being pregnant with his child would make him stay or because she was not strong enough to keep up with the drugging, she stopped giving him the potion. But instead of staying with her, Tom Riddle was soon to leave her and never seek her or his unborn child out again.”

“Until Tom found him.”

“Yes. Until then.” The professor sighs. “It is a difficult situation to imagine anyone having to face.”

“What was he like? Before this, before he started making Horcruxes?”

“I’m afraid I can only tell you what I thought I knew about him, Harry. Like we’ve realised, we never truly know another person unless they chose to let us see them, something Tom does not do easily. When I first met Tom Riddle, I was delivering his Hogwarts letter to him at the orphanage where he lived. He was correct to accuse me of being swayed by the words of the Matron there, something I have long regretted and ruminated over.”

“Swayed how?”

“The Matron thought Tom to be a demonic child, having no other way to explain the occurrences of magic. She informed me that Tom frightened the other children, that there had been many instances of him hurting them and stealing their things, although he always denied it and there was never any proof of wrongdoing. Nevertheless, I let those ideas guide my first interaction with Tom and I do not believe he ever forgave me for it.”

Harry mulls that over. Quite honestly, it wouldn’t surprise him if a lot of the things were true, knowing what Tom was capable of and what he’d done. But another part of him thinks about his own first introduction to magic. What if someone had asked the Dursleys about Harry before giving him his letter? What would they have had to say about him?

Nothing good, he would wager.

Dumbledore continues. “When he arrived at the school he stood alone and was met with silence when he sorted into Slytherin, after a moment of hat stalling. I gathered from what I saw of him in my classroom and the hallways that he was targeted for his secondhand robes and books, for his blood status and lack of family connections. Much like yourself he remained at Hogwarts for every holiday, once even asking if he could stay for the summer as well.”

The memory of doing the very same thing echoes in his mind, and reluctant understanding begins to bloom under Harry’s skin. Dumbledore seems to sense it as well.

“Do not think that he did not retaliate however,” he cautions, “Many of the house mates and other children that deigned to pick at Tom ended up in the Hospital Wing sporting injuries of varying severity. Tom was creative in his hexing, careful not to have it tracked back to him and none of his targets ever turned him over, or targeted him again. Then somewhere along the way something changed, and Tom soon began to gather a close circle of followers, all from highly respected families. I do not know what it is he promised them, or how he came to gain their favour, but by the end of his fifth year Tom had left his previous self behind.”

Harry listens attentively, storing all the new information as he receives it.

“The other teachers were suitably impressed by his studious nature and pleasing personality, singing his praises at every opportunity, and we all believed he would go far after Hogwarts. But instead of joining the Ministry like most everyone presumed, he chose to work at Borgin and Burkes for over a decade.”

“Borgin and Burkes? The shady dark junk shop in Knockturn Alley?” Harry can’t quite fathom someone like Tom choosing to work there. Dumbledore gives Harry a long look, amused.

“I will not ask you how exactly you know that shop, Harry. But yes, the very same. Before that though he asked the then Headmaster, Armando Dippet, to take over the role of Defence Against the Dark Arts from the retiring teacher, Galatea Merrythought. Dippet turned him away in regards to his age, but encouraged him to return in a few years. He worked in Borgin and Burkes obtaining dark and powerful objects, before returning to Hogwarts to ask again when I became Headmaster.”

Harry’s eyebrows climb more and more with each new revelation. “But already I had been hearing whispers of unrest about some of the movements Tom and his followers were making. So I rejected him, which would turn out to be the last time Tom Riddle was heard of. He disappeared overseas and by all accounts did not return, as by that time he had shed his old self to become Voldemort completely.”

As Harry processes that, a huge yawn splits across his face, cracking his jaw with the force of it. Dumbledore chuckles kindly.

“You’d better be back off to bed, Harry.”

So he shuffles back off downstairs, unnerved by how still and silent the castle is at this hour. His eyes itch with tiredness and when his head hits the pillow back in the head girls room, he only just manages to summon the effort to make sure his glasses are properly on the side table, before passing out completely.

It feels like it’s been no time at all when a firm knock wakes him up, bleary eyed and dry mouthed. The door swings open before he can muster up anything more than a gurgling groan of dismay.

“Do you always look as if you’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards when you first wake up?” Tom Riddle asks pleasantly, and through his squinting eyes Harry can see the blurred outline of him coming closer to the bed.

“Hmmph?” Harry mumbles.

“You’ve missed breakfast. Or rather, I ate yours when you didn’t answer my knock earlier.” The boy adds, making Harry’s stomach groan in complaint. He sits up finally to rub at his eyes hard enough that he starts seeing tiny dots of light. When he opens them with a yawn, he finds Tom has snatched up his glasses and is waving them under his nose. He puts them on.

“Time s’it?”

“Nearly half past eleven.”

Oh. Harry really had overslept. He also hadn’t had his sleep interrupted by nightmares about the Ministry, either.

“Is there anything from Dumbledore yet?” He asks before getting out of the bed, feeling awkward still being in it with Tom in the room. The other wizard is of course dressed as impeccable as he was yesterday, all smart crisp lines and neat buttons. A far cry from Harry’s tatty, worn hand me downs.

Tom turns to lean against the dresser, observing Harry like he’s a bug caught under a microscope. “Nothing yet. Fret not, he’s still alive as far as the elves reported. Unfortunately.”

Harry sends him a dark glare and snatches up his clothes to stomp into the attached bathroom, closing the door with a slam. To think he’d somewhat felt sorry for him last night! Harry needed to remember who he was dealing with here.

He dressed quickly, hopping from foot to foot as he shoves his way into his jeans, pulling the belt tight up to the hand made hole he’d had to make when it was thrown his way. The blood stained jacket is nowhere to be seen so he leaves the bathroom in just his shirt.

The look Tom gives him speaks volumes, so loud that didn’t really need to vocalize his opinion for Harry to catch it. He does anyway, of course.

“If the look you’re going for is a burlap sack then you’ve got it in one. Aren’t you supposed to be a Potter?”

“Yes? What’s that got to do with anything?”

Tom shrugs and he leads the way into the study room that joins the two bedrooms together. Despite what he’d said before, there’s a plate of breakfast pastries and some juice on the table, so Harry makes a beeline for it.

“The Potters are an old, noble family. Rich. I can’t imagine you’re short on the funds needed for getting yourself some more respectable clothing.”

Harry gulps his juice down, ridding himself of the awful dry mouth he’d woken up with. Really, when did Harry have the time to worry about clothing of all things? It seemed like such a pointless none-issue for him, to waste the money in his parent’s vaults on clothing. Who cared about looking respectable? He tells Tom as such, who clearly disagrees.

“Looking respectable gains respect in turn, Harry. How do you expect anyone to take you seriously when you walk around wearing rags?”

“People don’t usually take me seriously, ever.” He thinks back to all of last year, how his name had been dragged through every headline the Daily Prophet put out, called a liar and a nutcase in every issue. But who was right, in the end?

Harry finishes his breakfast and the plates pop away as he gets to his feet.

“I guess Snape will send another Patronus when Dumbledore is ready to start again,” Probably not for another few hours, Harry thinks, due to their late night conversation. “Up for another walk?”

“I thought you’d never ask.” Tom replies with his sharp cat-like grin as they leave the room side by side. He has both his own wand and Dumbledore’s in his waistband again, kept tight and safe against his body even if the way they poke him as he walks is a little irritating.

They head upwards out of the dungeons, greeted by the rays of light as they come up to the windowed halls. It’s another pleasant summer day, with vivid shades of green painted across the hills of the grounds, strokes of bright blue across the skies. Harry’s lips turn up into a soft smile, but there’s a bittersweet edge to the feeling, what with the fact this may be one of his last times seeing it.

To not return to Hogwarts… it’s crushing. His heart feels clamped and pinched at knowing he may never return, depending on the outcome of their hunt for the Horcruxes. If they succeeded, would there even be a Howgarts left to return to? If there was, it would not be the same without Dumbledore here.

And if they didn’t succeed…Well.

Harry doesn’t know how long his stay at Hogwarts will be this time, doesn’t know how long it’ll take to talk through the memories and notes Dumbledore has, and he doesn't even know where they’ll be going after. But he does know that he wants to visit every corner of the castle that he can, while he’s still got the time to do so. Study every painting he’s overlooked before, run his hands across every book in the library.

He doesn’t want his last memories of Hogwarts to be of his fifth year, with Umbridge and the detentions, Dumbledore’s avoidance of him and then the tragic ending at the Ministry.

So, chest tight but determined to enjoy himself, Harry turns to look at Tom.

“Shall we see if we can get into the other common rooms?”

Those dark eyes seem to light up with eagerness, with excitement.

“Which one first?”

It turned out Harry actually didn’t know the specifics of where the entrances to Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff were in the castle, really he only knows where the Slytherin one is because he snuck in with Ron that time during second year, so he leaves it up to Tom to guide them. They’re going upwards first, towards Ravenclaw tower which is on the same floor as Gryffindor, which Harry wants to stop by next.

The portrait of the Fat Lady guarded the entrance to Gryffindor common room, but the entrance for Ravenclaw when they come upon it seems to just be a plain old door, although with a very nice eagle-shaped door knocker on the front.

“This seems somehow anticlimactic.” Harry says, figuring this was it.

Tom smirks and reaches out, lifting the knocker to tap it in a rhythm against the door. The eagle shivers in place before its metal beak parts in two to begin speaking to them in a high, ringing voice.

“A box without hinges, key or lid.
Yet golden treasure inside is hid.”

Harry gapes. “Huh?”

With a snigger, Tom explains. “To gain entry into the ‘House of Knowledge’ you must first answer a riddle.”

“Oh. Well. Good thing I’ve got you here with me then, Riddle.”

A flat look. “I do not enjoy that expectation, Potter.”

Harry bites on his lip to stop the huge grin that fights to be let spread. “Yeah but you know the answer though, don’t you?”

He thinks for a moment that Tom isn’t going to answer just to spite him, but the desire to go inside clearly wins out as he reluctantly turns to the knocker to answer.

“An egg.”

The door swings open.

“Oh! I get it!” Harry crows, now understanding the riddle. Tom gives him an almighty shove in the back to get him to go forward before the door shuts again.

Any protest he might have made at being pushed about though is lost to the gasp he lets out as he takes in Ravenclaw’s common room for the first time.

“Woah.”

The first thing he notices is just how big the room is. It’s circular due to being in a tower, but there must be an enchantment on the place because it’s more on par with the size of a grand hall or ballroom. Harry pouts a bit thinking of the sometimes very overcrowded Gryffindor common room.

“Impressive.” Tom chimes in while walking over to the row of arched windows that take up one whole section of curved wall, looking out of one to the ground below.

“It’s so fancy.” The chairs are all matching, stiff backed and pristine blue with white pillows decorating them, but a lot of the space is instead dedicated to clusters of desks dotted around. Of course on the other side of the room there are the expected bookcases, rows and rows of neatly shelves tomes, and then two sets of stairs that lead around out of sight. In between the two doorways is a large painting.

Harry hears Tom walk over to the bookshelves and begin to rifle through something or other, but he’s busy studying the woman in the painting. She doesn't move at all strangely, which must mean the painting isn’t a magical one - or that the magic had faded a long time ago. She was pale and had a waterfall of dark ebony hair reaching down past the frame of the painting. Her robe was blue and upon her head sat a silvery sort of crown, only smaller. Even though the painting didn’t move, Harry's eyes were transfixed, enamoured. The crown somehow had an unexplainable sparkle to it.

“Rowena Ravenclaw.” Tom supplies from right behind him, resulting in Harry jumping nearly clean out of his skin as he shrieks, whirling around to scowl at the boy. He scrambles back though when it puts him nose to nose with the smirking wizard, briefly sharing the same air until Harry widens the gap again.

“Don’t do that!”

The boy looks innocently at him, tilting his head. “Do what?”

He huffs and turns back again. So this was Rowena Ravenclaw then.

“Why doesn’t she move?”

“Hmm, too old, most likely. By the time the art of enchanting paintings came around the founders would have all been long gone.”

“That’s a shame.” Harry thought she looked lonely and sad, in a way. He wondered if he was just projecting.

“If you say so. Come on, we need to get a move on before we’re called back.”

So they leave the Ravenclaw tower and its door knocker behind. Instead of heading down just yet though, Harry’s feet begin to drift towards where he knows the Fat Lady’s portrait is, shielding Gryffindor from view.

“Harry?” Tom calls, having gone in the direction of the stairs before realising he wasn't being followed.

“Can we - I want to go see Gryffindor. It might be the last time I…” He expects some measure of ridicule from the other boy for his vulnerability, but Tom surprises him by simply padding back over to his side on soft footfalls.

“Lead the way then.”

Harry does.

The Fat lady waves them through without trouble or need of a password, and Harry half wonders why before the familiar sight and smell of the common room hits him all at once. His heart thunders in his chest, ecstatic yet saddened all the same. Tom looks about the room, taking in all the details.

“It’s cosy.”

“You don’t need to try and appease me.” Harry says, hoping the boy would just stay quiet while he attempts to absorb every bit of the essence of this space up in peace. He sinks down into his favourite armchair and closes his eyes, picturing the many nights he’d sat here with Ron and Hermione nearby, studying and plotting and just enjoying each other's company. Neville would be at one of the tables behind him with a plant of some sort, and Ginny would be with her group of friends laughing brightly about something or other. The twins too, causing mischief in the corner while Hermione kept them in her sights, and the pleasant bubble of overlapping conversation and laughter would lull Harry off into a daze, not quite asleep but not fully awake.

Home.

Harry opens his eyes. The room is empty, devoid of anyone besides him and Tom, who’s over by the notice board reading the list of in house rules. Suddenly he finds himself not wanting to be here at all, when it’s so different to how he’d come to know it.

“I’m ready, let’s go.” He jumps to his feet, speeding out of the common room and barely remembering to hold the door open for Tom so it doesn’t smack him on his perfect nose as they leave. In another surprising move, Tom doesn’t choose to prod or question him, but Harry imagines he’s storing everything away all the same, ready to bring it up again another time.

They walk in silence through the floors of the castle, down the moving staircases and in the direction of the kitchens, Harry notices. He asks if that’s where they’re going.

“I was heading for Hufflepuff. The kitchens are down this way?”

Ah, so Tom has never been before. Harry nods.

“Yeah. Do you want to go there first?”

“It is about time for some lunch, I suppose.”

Harry once again takes up the lead and almost laughs out loud when he realises it’s his turn to be more knowledgeable about how a doorway works. He wonders if he can convince Tom to be the one to tickle the pear, or if it’ll just be too far below him.

The painting of the fruit bowl that hides the kitchens is large, bordered by an ornate golden frame. They stop to stand in front of it, side by side.

“To get into the kitchens you need to tickle the pear.” He gestures to the bright green, juicy looking fruit, trying to keep his face level, in case Tom thinks he’s taking the mick. Clearly he thinks that anyway, because he crosses his arms stubbornly.

“I don’t believe you.”

“Come on, Tom! The doors can’t all just be passwords and riddles. Just try it!”

“I’ll turn you into a pear if you’re having me on.” The boy mocks but actually does reach out to barely grace the tips of his slender fingers over the fruit. It giggles and jumps in place, jumping off the painting to become physical, to be used as a doorknob. Astonishment as well as a trace of begrudging joy flashes across Tom’s face as he turns it and pushes the door inwards.

Hundreds of huge, round eyes turn to stare in their direction.

It’s Harry’s turn to urge Tom forward, guiding the shocked boy forwards by his elbow to one of the long wooden tables that mirror the house tables in the Great Hall.

An elf scuttles over to them.

“Hi,” Harry smiles, “Could we please have some sandwiches? And some juice? Thank you.”

They sit side by side on the same bench, their elbows brushing while they watch the elves as they putter around, a lot less hectically than Harry had seen them be before. Obviously because there are no students or teachers in the castle at the minute to feed, outside of Dumbledore, Snape, Tom and him. Or at least, Harry doesn’t think there’s anyone else here currently, or surely they’d have come across them by now?

That thought has him thinking curiously of his other professors, about where they go over the summer. A strange image paints itself in his thoughts, of Filch and Mrs Norris sitting on sunloungers by the sea somewhere, grouchy as ever even in the sunshine.

Harry nearly snorts aloud at the mental picture, barely biting it back as the elves return with their lunch.

“How did you find this place?” Mutters Tom, picking up a sandwich of cheese and tomato and taking a bite.

“My best friend's twin brothers told us about it, in my fourth year.”

“The year of the tournament.”

Harry swallows his own bite of food a little roughly. “Yeah. How’d you know that?”

“I saw it in Dumbledore’s memories.” Something he clearly holds no shame over. He chooses not to answer, knowing he’ll probably end up shouting at him, instead focusing on gulping down his own food despite not being overly hungry, having eaten not too long ago.

The summons to return to the Headmasters office comes before they get a chance to uncover what Hufflepuffs entrance and common room consisted of, as they’re sitting finishing their lunch, dusting crumbs off their fingers and laps.

That ball of light comes through the ceiling, stopping to hover over their heads as it starts relaying Snape’s message in the usual unimpressed voice that he speaks to Harry in.

“I might have known you would not stay put, Potter. Return to the Headmasters office post haste.”

“Best be off then.” Harry says haltingly once the light fades away again, feeling admittedly hesitant about watching more memories of Tom’s past, what with how he had reacted yesterday. But their time with Dumbledore is steadily draining away, and they need all of the advice he can give if they’re to have any hope of succeeding in their mission.

All Harry can hope for is that he doesn’t gain any new injuries from whatever today's meeting brings.

Chapter Text

Tom steps back into the Headmasters office just behind Harry, feeling his mood and patience already fraying at the edges, and they haven’t even begun to drag up more memories of his unsavoury past yet today.

Truthfully he’d had a pleasant morning pottering around the castle with Harry, their conversation had been easy and fairly lighthearted, and it was always a balm on his restless spirit to walk through the halls of Hogwarts soaking in her magic. He had surprisingly slept like a log, or perhaps not so surprising, considering the events leading up to it and the fact the bed in the Head Boys dorm was like sleeping on a cloud, on air.

Much more accommodating on his still adjusting body than the floor of Riddle Manor had been.

No, the cause of his unrest lay with two culprits that somewhat went hand in hand together; Dumbledore, living and breathing still and annoyingly looking a little healthier today rather than the opposite, and the magic dampening cuffs still in place upon his wrists. It was beginning to make Tom feel unwell himself, sweat gathering at the back of the neck and temples, his breathing becoming quick and short while his heart thundered in his chest a mile a minute.

While guilt tripping Harry about it would have been far too easy, it isn’t him that he wants to direct his ire towards. Although Harry had been the one to put them on, he likely didn’t know about the side effects of such items, and therefore did not deserve full blame. Dumbledore however, did know and did deserve it. He’d been there when they’d snapped some on his warmongering ex boyfriend, after all.

He was here to take down his estranged main soul, not to be analysed like a science experiment, and Tom couldn’t do anything with his magic contained and his emotions as erratic as they were. He cringes to think of how emotionally vulnerable he’d been yesterday as he’d lashed out like cornered prey, how he’d bared his stupidly weak and bitter heart for all to see, and he puts the blame entirely on the cuffs.

So he doesn’t sit down when they enter the office, does not involve himself in the nauseating politeness happening between Dumbledore and Harry as they blather about their mornings.

“Is something the matter, Mr Riddle?” The old man asks when he realises Tom is glaring at him from where he's been standing in front of his chair from yesterday, rather than moving to sit in it. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Harry fidget nervously.

“You will remove the cuffs.” Tom states, orders really, leaving no room for misinterpretation; he will be having these cuffs off now.

Dumbledore studies him for a moment, looking him in the eyes yet not attempting to slip further in, perhaps knowing the pointlessness in trying. Tom half wished that he would, if only to give him a good reason to lash out in return. But while he doesn’t get that wish, the old man nods after a few minutes and looks at Harry.

“Harry, would you mind terribly? You’ll need to will your magic into releasing them from Mr Riddle, use my wand to do it.”

Harry looks a little unsure but he stands up anyway, lifting the hem of his shirt up to grab hold of Dumbledore’s wand where he’d had it stored in his jeans again. Really, Tom thinks judgmentally, of all the directions to point a wand in. He holds his wrists up as he’d done before, jolting a little when one of Harry’s warm hands comes up to cradle his own, keeping them in place as he levels the wand at the cuffs.

The boy frowns down at the cuffs, scrunching his face up and biting his lip as he concentrates and Tom can’t look away, captivated by the shine of his bright green eyes as the magic answers to his call, his command. And then the cuffs crack open with a loud clink and Tom’s vision goes blotchy as the entirety of his magic rushes to the surface. It leaks out of him and then swans back in, in and out like a living breathing organism outside of him, swirling a little with Harry’s where he’s standing so near. He distantly registers his bodyweight being caught as he teeters forwards on weak knees, his forehead colliding into the solid curve of Harry’s shoulders as the boy stumbles a little trying to steady them both.

“Tom? Are you alright?” Harry asks, muffled to Tom’s ringing ears. It takes another minute for him to gather himself, to stand up with a relieved intake of breath. He opens his eyes, unaware they’d fallen shut, and looks straight at Harry with a small but pleased grin.

“Better than ever. Thank you, Harry.”

He blushes wonderfully, pinky red blotching across his cheeks and nose, and their eyes catch and snag on looking deeply at one another before Dumbledore interrupts them with a little cough, breaking the bubble the two of them were in. Harry rushes to let go of Tom now that he’s recovered and they both staunchly avoid looking directly at the way Dumbledore’s eyes are positively gleaming as he twinkles at them, smiling like a fool.

“Now that’s sorted out, my boys, are you ready to begin?”

Tom’s rising mood sobers at once, remembering what it is they’re back here to do. At least he has the assurance of his magic being within reach once more. He makes sure his mental shields are all in place and locks down his emotions as best he can, determined not to allow any slip ups to occur.

He and Harry nod their agreement.

“Good,” Dumbledore begins, “Yesterday we left off having seen the memory of The Gaunts and having determined the possibility of Merope’s locket being another Horcrux. This Memory here supports that possibility.” He brings forward the Pensieve but waves the two of them off when they begin to stand.

“We will just be skimming this memory rather than falling into it. I thought it would be best.”

Tom grits his teeth at the insinuation that it’s because of him, but Harry derails his thoughts by asking Dumbledore, “You can do that?”

“Oh yes, Harry. It doesn’t give you as clear an image of course, but it gives you the essentials. Let’s hear what Caractacus Burke had to say, shall we?”

The memory is poured out into the Pensieve as usual, only this time instead of ducking their heads into it, Dumbledore swirls his fingers through the airy liquid of the bowl and lightly taps on the edge of it until the hazy figure of Burke rises up from the substance, silvery and ghost like.

“Yes, we acquired it in curious circumstances. It was brought in by a young witch just before Christmas, oh, many years ago now. She said she needed the gold badly, well, that much was obvious. Covered in rags and pretty far along… Going to have a baby, see. She said the locket had been Slytherin’s. Well, you hear that sort of story all the time, 'Oh, this was Merlin’s, this was his favourite teapot,’ but when I looked at it, it had his mark all right, and a few simple spells were enough to tell me the truth. Of course, that made it near enough priceless. She didn't seem to have any idea how much it was worth! Happy to get ten Galleons for it. Best bargain we ever made!”

Dumbledore shakes the Pensieve again to make the apparition disappear, Burke’s grating, crowing voice sinking back into the water of the bowl.

“He only gave her ten Galleons?” Harry says, clearly indignant.

“Caractacus Burke was not famed for his generosity,” Dumbledore explains, “So we know that at the end of her pregnancy, Merope was alone in London and desperate for money, leading her to sell her one and only valuable possession.”

“But I don’t understand, even as weak as she was she could still do magic! If she could get to Knockturn to sell the locket, she could've gone to Diagon Alley and, I don’t know, asked for help or something!”

“She didn’t want to.” Tom answers, remaining level toned despite feeling his emotions begging to be let free again. His magic roiled as he learnt just how much his mother truly cared for him, which was none. “Don’t you see, Harry? She only got pregnant to try and keep my father around, so when he ran off anyway what point was there to stick around for the constant physical reminder of her failure? Even if she had lived through childbirth, the chances are she would’ve left me in the orphanage anyway.”

Harry’s face is stricken, as if he can’t fathom how someone could do something like that, but Dumbledore’s solemn face solidifies Tom’s statement.

“I am sure it was not as simple as that. From the little we know of her, Merope’s life was long suffering and she did not have the strength and courage to live in spite of her pains, to live for her child.”

“She was weak.” Tom cuts in, defiant, and the topic is dropped.

“The reason this memory holds some importance is because, after graduating Hogwarts, Voldemort started to work in Borgin and Burkes, going against everyone's presumptions of what he’d go on to do as a career. HIs role in the shop was to meet up with potential customers to try and convince them to sell their priceless heirlooms and treasures to the shop, something Voldemort was very gifted at doing.”

“Oh, I’m sure.” Harry mutters under his breath.

“It’s not like there was much else for me.” He blurts out, not really meaning to but feeling the childish need to defend himself anyway. Two sets of curious eyes turn to look questioningly at him, so he powers ahead. “Borgin and Burkes I mean. Voldemort must have decided to work there after he’d put me in the Ring, because I hold no memory of applying, but I do remember applying elsewhere. They all rejected me, despite my high test scores and the letters of reference from Professors Slughorn and Merrythought. Because of my blood.”

His words grew sour and he took a quick breath in, pausing to purse his lips before carrying on. “It makes sense for what I wanted to do, which was make more Horcruxes, but it wouldn’t have been my first choice.”

“It is a long standing failing of the wizarding world, to hold so much reverence for what blood you have or where you come from. It is in no way indicative of our abilities or knowledge, nor should it have to be. I am sorry that the system failed you Tom, I believe you would have gone very far if only you were given the opportunity to do so. If I had given you that oppurtinuty.” The papers on the desk shift a little with the gentle breeze that flows through an open window somewhere above their heads, ruffling Tom’s hair as well. He digs his fingers into the meat of his palm and doesn’t allow his face to change. Fat lot of good it is to say this to him now, when his chance was gone.

“There is much to be studied about the influences of muggle blood in magical families, how clearly it can rejuvenate old, stagnant bloodlines. You yourself are evidence of this, Tom, if you do not mind my saying. The Gaunt’s believed so much in purity of blood that they inbred themselves near to the point of extinction. Without your father’s blood, you would have been destined for the same lack of magical ability.”

Tom very distinctly did mind, but he could not argue that what the man said was true. He had seen for himself how warped and ruined his family tree was, overlapping and joining where they definitely should not have. Still, he’s not about to agree to Dumbledore’s face.

The man carries on anyway. “Much like you, Harry, my mother was a Muggleborn witch and if it is not too self flattering of me to say, I would say we are both made powerful because of their blood, not in spite of it.”

This is new information to both him and Harry it seems, as they both gape at Dumbledore who only twinkles at them in return. “But we are getting away from the subject. As I mentioned, Voldemort’s role as shop assistant, amongst manning the shop and selling their wares, was to gain favour with the most elite of families and in turn, gain access to their possessions. One such client was Hepzibah Smith, a family long descended from the Hufflepuff line, much like the Gaunts and Slytherin.”

“Oh, yeah. There’s a Smith in Hufflepuff in my year. Zacharias. Right tosser.” Harry says, switching to Parseltongue at the end purely for Tom’s ears alone. He smiles, pleased that Harry is warming up to him, and they share a quick look before returning to paying attention. Dumbledore clearly hasn’t missed the exchange, but lets it lie.

“Yes, Mr Smith is in some way connected to Hepzibah and in turn Hufflepuff, although I’m not sure how closely. Either way, Voldemort struck up a working relationship with Hepzibah especially, and she took a great shine to him in return. This memory however, was given to me from her house elf at the time, Hokey. As before, I will remain here. We’ll discuss it when you’re done.”

Dumbledore extracts the previous memory of Burke from the Pensieve and then adds the next one in. Tom and Harry approach it and dive in together.

The room they landed in was a hoarders paradise. Multiple cabinets teemed and overflowed with lacquered little boxes and gold-embossed books. There were orbs, celestial globes and a large abundance of different kinds of plants. It was, to put it simply, chaos. But Tom’s attention was soon captured by the pink clad, rather round looking old woman, an atrocious and elaborate ginger wig placed atop her head. She was looking into a small bejewelled mirror as she plastered her already coloured cheeks with red rouge, something Tom remembered the girls doing in the Slytherin common room, most often before any of Slughorn’s parties.

He turns up his lip in revulsion and almost misses the tiny, ancient house elf positioned at the woman’s feet tying her shoes into place. It’s nearly completely hidden amongst the layered waterfalls of fairy floss robes the woman is wearing. And, really, pink robes and a ginger wig? What was she thinking?

Then the woman opens her mouth to speak and his distaste for her blooms all the more at her sugary, bossy voice.

“Hurry up, Hokey! He said he’d come at four, it’s only a few minutes to and he’s never been late yet!”

She puts her rouge away and inspects herself in the mirror, angling her face every which way as if it would help the mess of her face look better in some lights. Impossible. Still, when she turns to her house elf to ask how she looks, the lying little thing replies politely.

“Lovely, madam.”

Tom can’t resist looking over at Harry for his reaction and they both start snickering until the tinkle of a doorbell ringing interrupts them all.

“Quick, quick, he’s here, Hokey!” Hepzibah cries and the elf scurries away through the labyrinth of objects teetering in their towering stacks. It’s quick to return and this time, not alone.

The Tom Riddle with two Horcruxes under his belt has grown even taller, standing a few inches above Tom himself as the memory of him passes by. His hair has grown longer too, more in a neglectful way than anything truly stylish, although it seems to fit his face well enough. He was wearing a black suit and he manoeuvred through the chaos of the room in a way that spoke of long familiarity. He bows low, something Tom scoffs a little at, and kisses Hepzibah’s chunky little hand that she holds out to him.

Beside him, Harry remains tellingly quiet, only raising his hand up to his mouth to chew at his nails as they watch the memory progress.

“I brought you flowers,” Voldemort says quietly, and produces them out of thin air, much to the delight of Hepzibah, who squeals in over the top excitement.

Cheap trick, Tom thinks scornfully.

“You naughty boy, you shouldn’t have! You do spoil this old lady!” She places them into an empty glass vase that was positioned on a little table nearby, so it must have been a habit for Voldemort to not turn up empty handed. Tom wondered where he’d got them; there was no way Voldemort would’ve brought them. Then, Hokey the elf then comes in with a tray of tea and cakes, setting it at the woman’s elbow.

“Help yourself, Tom, I know you love my cakes. Now, how are you? You look pale. They overwork you at that shop, I’ve said it a hundred times.” True, Voldemort did look paler here than Tom did currently, either from the magical drawback of making the Horcrux, which Tom had experienced himself with the Diary, or from his likely return to poverty at the hands of his lifestyle. Namely, working for someone who no doubt does overwork him, and underpay him to boot.

Voldemort only smiles mechanically, a poor comparison to Tom’s much smoother, natural looking facade. Already Voldemort was losing his touch.

Hepzibah bats her eyelashes, falsely coy. “Well, what’s your excuse for visiting this time?”

“Mr Burke would like to make an improved offer for the goblin-made armor. Five hundred Galleons, he’s feels it is a more than fair-”

“Now, now, not so fast, or I’ll think you’re only here for my trinkets!” The woman pouts. Tom’s eyes roll back into his head.

“I am ordered here because of them,” Voldemort replies “I am only a poor assistant, madam, who must do as he is told-”

Tom just has to let out a sharp, barking laugh. “He sure does lay it on thick.” Harry only hums in agreement, watching closely.

Hepzibah obviously doesn’t notice anyway, as she waves her hands about as if to physically shoo the conversation away. “I’ve something to show you that I’ve never shown Mr Burke! Can you keep a secret, Tom? Will you promise you won’t tell Mr Burke I’ve got it? He’d never let me rest if he knew I’d shown it to you, and I’m not selling, not to Burke, not to anyone! But you, Tom, you’ll appreciate it for its history, not how many Galleons you can get for it.”

His back straightens, intrigued. It can’t be the locket, as Burke would already know all about it, so was this something else? Another possible Horcrux? Voldemort mutters something simpering about being glad to see whatever the woman wants to show him, because of course he does.

“I had Hokey bring it out for me…Hokey, where are you? I want to show Mr Riddle our finest treasure. In fact, bring both, while you’re at it…”

So the elf goes off and fetches whatever these ‘treasures’ are, returning with two brown leather cases held above its head as it winded through the maze of clutter.

“Now,” Hepzibah takes both boxes and lays them on her lap, one atop the other. “I think you’ll like this, Tom… Oh, if only my family knew I was showing you.. They can’t wait to get their hands on this!”

With Harry right alongside him, Tom crowds close behind the sofa the two are sitting on so he can peer into the box as Hepzibah opens the lid. Nestled against the silky soft interior sits a small golden cup, with two fine little handles on either side.

“I wonder whether you know what it is, Tom? Pick it up, have a good look!” Voldemort reaches out his long, pale fingers and lifts the cup from its snug bed. Tom wishes he could do the same, his magpieing tendencies pinging madly in the back of his head, the desire to take and keep as loud as ever. He could see that it was the same within Voldemort, that familiar greedy expression gleaming in dark eyes, which are tinted ever so slightly red.

“A badger,” he murmurs, and Tom see’s Voldemort twist the cup in his hands more, unwittingly showing Harry and Tom the engraving etched upon it. “Then this was?”

“Helga Hufflepuff’s, as you very well know, you clever boy!” Askanced, Tom can only watch as the old woman leans forward in her seat and actually pinches the skin of Voldemort’s hollow cheek. Beside him, Harry chokes.

“Oh my god.” The boy gasps, his eyes wide with horrified amusement. “She’s treating him like a little dog! How has he not killed her?!”

Fortunately for Hepzibah, Voldemort somehow refrains from fulfilling what is no doubt an elaborate murder scene in his head, and she continues blathering on, none the wiser. “Didn’t I tell you I was distantly descented? This has been handed down in the family for years and years. Lovely isn’t it? And all sorts of powers it’s supposed to possess too, but I haven’t tested them thoroughly, I just keep it nice and safe in here.”

She slips the cup from Voldemort’s hold and places it gently back into its box, so occupied with doing so that she misses the dark shadow that crossed Voldemorts face. But Harry and Tom see it, sharing a look together at the implication that the cup is most definitely another potential lead for their mission.

Hokey the elf took the box with the cup away again, leaving the second one behind, this one flatter. Big enough for a Locket, Tom reckons.

He’s proven correct.

“I think you’ll like this even more, Tom. Lean in a little, dear boy, so you can see…Of course, Burke knows I’ve got this one, I bought it from him, and I dare say he’d love to get it back when I’m gone..”

The lid comes off and sitting upon another silky soft bed of lining, sits Slytherin’s locket. Merope’s Locket. Tom’s Locket.

Voldemort, whether he knows the close family ties he has to the locket or not, is completely enraptured, reaching out to pick it up without waiting for permission.

“Slytherin’s mark.”

The memory of his family hadn’t allowed Tom to see it properly, but he can see it now, where Voldemort holds it up to the light. It’s golden, heavy looking, with a snake shaped into the letter S on the front of it.

“That’s right! I had to pay an arm and a leg for it, but I couldn’t let it pass, not a real treasure like that, had to have it for my collection. Burke bought it, apparently, from a ragged looking woman who seemed to have stolen it, but had no idea of it’s true value-” Tom and Voldemort mirror each other then as their knuckles go white as they tighten; Voldemort’s around the chain of the locket, and Tom’s into his own palms, digging his nails in painfully.

Hepzibah prattles on about something else and reaches to take the locket back again. For a moment, Tom yearns to defy the impossible and snatch it away from both of them, but all he can do is watch as it’s slipped out of Voldemort’s grasp and placed back into the box.

The elf takes it away and the memory draws to a close.

“What is your verdict?” Dumbledore asks once they’re seated again.

“That hufflepuff cup must be another Horcrux.” Harry says, at the same time that Tom ventures, “Hepzibah Smith certainly did not live long after that memory.”

“Very well deduced,” the Headmaster inclines his head. “We can not really say it as a certainty, but it is extremely likely that the cup of Helga Hufflepuff is indeed another Horcrux. As for Hepzibah Smith, she died two days after that memory.”

“How wasn’t he caught?” Harry questions. Tom takes slight offense.

“Because Hokey the house elf was convicted for accidentally poisoning her mistress' evening cocoa.”

“So Voldemort framed the elf for it?”

“Yes. He modified her memory, much like with Morfin, and so Hokey remembered and confessed to it. It was concluded that she had not meant to do it, but that she was very old and confused the sugar for something else. The matter was closed and by the time the rest of Hepzibah’s family realised two of her greatest treasure’s were missing, Voldemort had left his position at Borgin and Burkes and as you know, was not seen as Tom Riddle again.”

Tom processes that slowly, running over the information in his mind. So, the first two Horcruxes had been personal; his childhood Diary and the Ring of his maternal family’s line. He could class the Locket as personal as well, but it also fell into another category. Hogwarts Founders items. Slytherin’s Locket. Hufflepuff’s Cup. That still left two more Horcruxes they needed to figure out, two that could belong to Ravenclaw and Gryffindor, to complete the set.

It’s something he’ll need to remember.

“It is through the memories and first hand accounts that I came to speculate on the whereabouts of each Horcrux. I was led to the Gaunt shack by the memory the both of you saw as well as one other, and seeing as that was a correct assumption, I feel fairly confident that my next one is as well.”

Correct assumption. Tom hides a dark smirk. Of course it was correct because he found the Ring, but he bet everything that Dumbledore did not foresee that Ring would then come to life, and nearly end his in doing so. Although, he was still a little vexed with himself that it was only ‘nearly’.

“Every year in your childhood, Mr Riddle, the orphanage took you all out for short outings to the sea or countryside, yes?”

“Well, not every year,” Tom replies, flummoxed at the abrupt subject change.

“Was it the same beach everytime?”

Again, confused and becoming more guarded, Tom answers. “Yes. Whitstable. It was the cheapest.”

“Hmm.” Dumbledore seems wary of speaking further, opening his mouth only to close it again as if reconsidering his words. Tom squints at him, daring him to do it. Harry’s eye flick between the both of them rapidly.

“Do you remember a cave, Mr Riddle?”

So it was about that then. Tom rubs the pad of his thumb over the nails of his other fingers, smoothing back and forwards as he tries to think of what to say.

“Mrs Cole told you.” That was clear enough that it didn’t really need stating, but Dumbledore nodded anyway. He looks solemn, serious as the grave he’s headed for.

“She told me that you, along with two muggle children named Amy Benson and Dennis Bishop, went exploring the nearby caves of the beach and when you all returned, the two others were not quite the same. Would you like to share anything about that day, Tom?”

Would he?

Tom remembers everything about that day.

He was half way through his eighth year of life, already world weary and bitter about his position in life, and Mrs Cole had told him before the day trip down to Whitstable Beach that it was to be his last, on account of ‘giving the newcomers a chance to get out’. All of the orphans of Wools could not go out at once, of course. There was never any point in taking the snotty nosed, mushy brained babies and toddlers for hours on the steam train either, so Tom had always been able to go, even if Mrs Cole thought he was a devil child who didn’t deserve rewarding with days out. But Tuberculosis was taking more and more people by the day, people whose children got orphaned and subsequently dropped on Wools doorstep.

Already Tom had been moved up into the Attic room on his own, although that was mostly because he liked to make sure the newcomers in his shared room knew who was in charge, by standing over their beds at night hissing in the snake speak no one else could understand. After so many of them had gone crying about his ‘unholy’ behaviour, Mrs Cole had one, smacked him on the backs of his thighs with her slipper until he was red raw, and two, cleared the Attic of the few cobwebs and boxes there before ordering him to move his bed up there if he wanted super that night.

Truthfully Tom was happier up there. He was at the top of the building now, figuratively and literally. But then Mrs Cole had told him that next year he wouldn't be going to the beach, especially if there were even more orphans by that time, which there definitely would be if the newspapers were to be believed.

Which left him here, at the beach, with a problem.

On his previous visits, Tom had come across a series of cave mouths embedded into the sides of the cliffs, only barely visible from his vantage on the cliffs above. He longed to go inside and explore but there was no discernable path that led down, which meant scaling down the side of the cliff by hand. Tom hadn’t been brave enough to try it yet but he’d been practising with his ‘specialness’ ever since, trying to make himself stronger so he could finally get inside.

He wasn’t sure if he was yet, but there would be no returning trips for him, so he needed to do it here and now.

“Amy, Denny, wanna go forra walk?” He asks the two children nearest to him. Little Amy Benson, who’d been at Wools for three years and was a year younger than Tom, and Dennis Bishop, who was the same age as him. They were the smallest of the lot and always wanted to stay on his nice side. They jump up and he takes one of their hands each, leading them away. Both of them keep quiet as they walk, knowing Tom doesn’t like inane chattering.

Although the day was a clear and bright one, the seas below were as fierce as ever where they slammed against the rocks. The cave was visible and Tom could see the little ledge where he’d need to land. The three of them stop there and Amy shivers at the picked up wind.

Tom turns to look at them, their nervous pale faces and twitching bodies. He smiles and looks deep into their eyes as he speaks. “Relax. Nothing bads gunna ‘appen. I’m gunna make ya fly. You’d like that, wouldn’t ya?”

Their eyes go big and hazy and they both nod in agreement.

“Good,” Tom says, pleased. “You first, Amy.”

Guiding her off the cliff edge starts off okay but as he’s putting all of his effort and concentration into keeping the girl airborne, the hazy cloud of compliance begins to lift from both her and Dennis behind him. Amy begins to thrash and panic and Tom has to grit his teeth hard to keep her up.

“HELP! HELP ME, TOM!!! PLEASE!! I’M GONNA DIEEEE!!” She screams and shrieks, becoming more and more hysterical as she hangs precariously over the roaring sea, then Dennis begins to cry as well and out of the corner of his eye Tom see’s the other boy move back, as if to go for someone. He spins around with a growl.

“STOP.” Dennis stops short, struck, but Tom realises in commanding the boy he’s accidentally let go of Amy, as the girl lets out a blood-curdling and echoing scream. He goes slamming down onto his knees as he hangs over the cliff, straining and physically holding his hands directed out to catch her before she meets her death on the rocks. Her body halts jarringly in mid air but she’s at least near the ledge now, so Tom deposits her there none too gently and falls onto his back, drained and nauseous.

At his side, Dennis remains standing in place and doesn’t make a single noise.

By the time he’s got his energy back up, Tom realises he’s gone very, very wrong with his endeavours of his last beach trip. He’ll never get inside the cave, and he’d gone too harsh on Amy’s and Dennis’s feeble minds. He’d managed to raise the girl back up to the cliff, but she was not as she had been before, even after he’s released her from his command. She had soiled herself at some point in her fear, and the smell of it itches his nose as he walks them back towards the others. Dennis was the same, despite not having gone over. Tom’s command to ‘stop’ had apparently stopped everything.

The day was a complete and utter failure. The train ride back was dour, Mrs Cole was fretting over Amy and Dennis too much to reprimand Tom for the moment, but he knew he’d be in for another lashing soon. She couldn’t prove he’d done anything, of course. But she’d beat him for it all the same.

“No,” Tom says currently, in the office of Dumbledore who is staring him down. He clears his throat, looks off up into the eaves of the room while feeling two sets of eyes boring into him.

“I have nothing to share.”

“I see.” Dumbledore replies, although sounding very much as if he didn’t. “Very well." He takes a breath, holding it for a long moment while the room is quiet and tense. Then, he releases it and they all breath as one. Then, the old wizard continues as if nothing had been said.

"Nevertheless, I believe those caves are our best estimation on the whereabouts of the Locket, or at least another Horcrux. After leaving Borgin and Burkes, there is a substantial dark spot in our knowledge of what Voldemort did before returning to England. The most I could gather from outside sources was that while he certainly travelled to the other magical communities of the world, Egypt, Italy and Albania, to name a few, Voldemort did not keep close company and therefore nobody knew what he was doing.”

“So you’re saying there may be Horcruxes hidden in different countries?!” Harry sounds despairing at the idea, and Tom can’t even blame him. Their task is already going to be difficult enough, to think of Horcruxes being even further afield takes it further and further into impossibility. Thankfully, Dumbledore shakes his head.

“I do not believe Voldemort would have stored the vessels holding pieces of his soul overseas. He would have liked to keep them closer, for ease of comfort knowing they were fairly accessible if he wanted to check on them.”

Tom scoffs harshly. “Well I can tell you for a fact that he never checked on me, not even once!” Alright, so he was still annoyed about that. Wasn’t he within his rights to be?

Dumbledore carries on, delivering his next statement much to the shock of the two wizards opposite him. “The cave may be the last solid lead we have to follow. With that being said, I think it is essential that we go there as soon as possible, even today.”

Silence rings in the office.

“Today? But, it’s so soon, and, you’re not well, sir-” Harry begins, his words tripping over each other as he scrambles for what to say.

Indulgently, Dumbledore smiles at Harry, something close to pity in his eyes.

“I know it is not a task you wanted to do, Harry. But the sooner you begin finding these Horcruxes, the sooner Voldemort can be defeated. I do not have the privilege of time in front of me, and I know with certainty that after I am dead Voldemort will not hesitate to make things worse, for everyone, as he takes over ruling Britain.”

He allows a moment for Harry to process his words.

“Fine. We go to the cave,” The boy decides. “But then what? How do we destroy it?”

“We don’t, in the strictest sense.” Tom decides to weigh in, “I will be absorbing the soul fragments from each vessel back into my portion of soul.” He explains, smiling.

Dumbledore doesn’t seem altogether sold on that idea, opening his mouth as if to protest, Harry jumps in first.

“Wait, but hang on-” He says, twisting to sit facing Tom more head on, “I’ve just realised. Aren’t you a part of him as well? Surely that means we’d need to destroy you for this whole thing to work!”

“Not at all. When you split your soul, you split it in half. The diary was a full fifty percent of Voldemort, meaning as the Ring I am twenty five percent. Statistically by that standard, Voldemort making six Horcruxes leaves him with a minuscule sliver, which is probably why he’s such a raving lunatic. While technically my soul came from him, I now possess more of it.” Tom shrugs, feeling pleased with himself. “If I absorb the others, by the time we face Voldemort and kill him, it’ll effectively be as if he is nothing more than a vessel himself. We kill him, I absorb the last piece, and Voldemort is gone for good.”

Dumbledore looks troubled, his one functional hand stroking nervous fingers over his beard, eyes darting about every which way. Tom watches, waiting for the denial, for the insistence that they be destroyed properly. But, just as before, the boy at his side speaks first.

“How would you do that? Absorb them, I mean?”

“When I was researching Horcruxes, there was another ritual written detailing how to change the vessels chosen for your soul piece. I can’t remember the exact specifics of it now, but if I perform that ritual in a closed circle of Runes with me and the Horcrux inside, by the time the soul is out of the vessel I can move in and take it instead.”

“How do you know you’ve reattached it properly?”

Tom rubs his chest with his knuckles and Harry’s eyes drop down to follow the movement.

“I’ll know.” He says and that’s the last of it.

“It seems we are decided then,” Says Dumbledore reluctantly. “If we arrive at the cave and find there is indeed a Horcrux stored there, Mr Riddle will reabsorb it. Very well.”

Dumbledore then moves to stand.

“Wait,” Harry almost trips as he rushes to his feet, “You mean right now?”

Though slightly improved from his weak state the day before, it is clear Dumbledore is still not at his most able or powerful right now. His robes hang off him oddly where he’s already gone thin and brittle under the effects of the curse, his skin wrinkled and pale. But, even so, the old man stands without help and doesn’t wobble too much, his blackened hand hanging limp and useless at his side. Harry looks as if he’s only a few seconds away from jumping over the desk to help him sit back down, so Dumbledore draws himself up even more, a determined expression evident in every inch gained.

“Time is of the essence, my boy. First though, seeing as you are still underage Harry, and my wand will not work with my depleted magical stores, I believe it’s time to re-equip Mr Riddle with a wand for the task ahead.”

Tom tries to contain his excitement, but he knows his eyes must be positively gleaming at the news. He was more than efficient with wandless, wordless magic, more than capable, but he could not deny having a wand made it flow much quicker.

“I know you will not enjoy doing so, but I would advise loaning your original wand for this, Harry, and you can use mine, seeing as it apparently has taken a liking to you.”

“Oh,” Indeed, Harry does not look too keen to hand his wand over. Tom certainly wouldn’t, if it were asked of him to hand his wand over, but he stands from his chair with thinly veiled eagerness as Harry begrudgingly lifts his shirt again to slip both wands out.

Dumbledore’s is far longer and much more intricate in design, but the appeal of that wand was mostly the irony of him, Tom Riddle, using it having bested his old School teacher. Harry’s wand, which the boy hands out with a scowl painted on his face, is simpler, with a rougher look to the handle which Tom reaches up to wrap his fingers around.

Almost before he’s even fully holding it, warmth begins to rush and sing through his body, lighting him up from the inside out. It’s exactly the same feeling he’d had at eleven, standing in Ollivanders where he’d just been handed his first wand, his true wand. How could this be? How could Harry's wand feel just the same?

Although he’s still grumpy at giving his wand over to Tom, Harry notices his reaction and gives a hint of a smile.

“It’s holly wood, and Phoenix feather core. Mr Ollivander told me when it chose me that the feather in mine was one of two, that it had a brother wand which turned out to be Voldemort’s.” The boy explains as Tom looks down at the wand astonishedly. Brother wands? He’d never heard of such a thing. He curls his fingers firmly and holds it tight, feeling the flow of magic like breathing and already knows he will not be handing it back. Dumbledore’s wand seemed to like Harry, the man had said? Well, that works in Tom’s favour. He also makes a mental note to look more into wandlore.

“Wonderful,” Dumbledore says, moving as if to clap his hands before remembering that it would not be a good idea. “Come up here, we’ll go over the last few details before departing.”

The man leads the way up to the second level of the office and then to a spiralling set of metal stairs, going up further. It leads to an open sort of observatory, much like the Astronomy Tower, with part of the roof missing to give access to the air beyond.

“Now, it is of no question that we will face some sort of defense in our path to the Horcrux. There are endless possibilities to the options of guard Voldemort could have chosen, and none of them I am eager to face, so we must tread carefully and have our full wits about us. You must listen to what I say, and if the worst is to happen, Tom,” The man looks straight at Tom then, using his name for the first time since yesterday when he’d apologised. “Can I count on you to prioritise our safety, if the worst should happen?”

Their gazes connect and suddenly Tom hears Dumbledore’s voice echoing between his ears, a whisper for him alone.

“Leave me. Make sure you get Harry to safety.”

His face doesn’t change, but Tom blinks, tightens his jaw and nods, just once. “Of course, Professor.” He replies, falling back on his old politeness. Dumbledore studies him and then nods in return.

“Take hold of my arm, if you please.” Dumbledore directs so he and Harry do as he says. Harry gently clasps Dumbledore's weak arm, while Tom just barely allows his palm to rest on the other one.

“Urm, sorry, sir, but what are we doing?” Harry questions, “We aren’t apparating, are we? I thought it was impossible to do in the castle?”

“Not apparating, no.” Dumbledore replies serenely, just as a high cry of some kind of bird echoes around the room, and a light begins to burn and flare as it grows closer. “But something a little more exciting. Hold on, now.”

Tom’s jaw drops and Harry gasps as Dumbledore’s Phoenix, Fawkes, soars into the room with sweeping, sparking wings, singing as he circles once then twice, stirring up the power in the room until it grows visceral, physical, so heady that Tom can practically taste it on his tongue.

Fawkes pauses in the air above their heads, raising his wings skywards and calling loudly once more just as the room flashes a blinding, brilliant white. Tom's feet are swept from under him and then he's gone, transported impossibly away from the castle with the echoing cry of a Phoenix filling his ears.

Chapter Text

Salt.

That’s the first thing Tom registers as his feet touch on solid ground once more, Dumbledore and Harry at his side, and Fawkes nowhere to be seen. The salty air of the ocean, crisp and pervasive, assaults his sense of smell from their landing place atop the ragged cliffs of the coastline. He’d also barely taken note of how far along the afternoon had gotten, while they’d been busy viewing the memories and discussing the Horcruxes, so the sight of the darkening sky on the horizon is disconcerting.

The waves below crash loud and echoing where they ricochet off the cliff face, sending sprays of foam leaping upwards, and when he treads carefully closer to the edge to look over, Tom sees they are as black and treacherous looking as ever. Time has barely touched the place, and if it were not for Dumbledore and Harry coming to look down at the violent waters below alongside him, he might’ve forgotten that he was not eight year old Tom Riddle anymore, in his isolated little spot atop the cliffs away from the other orphans.

There’s a stabbing bite to the air here too, and his thin cotton shirt does nothing to stop his skin rising into goosebumps as it slips underneath his sleeve cuffs, his collar, caressing Tom with its icy fingers.

Harry lets out a long whistle, stepping back away from the ledge for a moment.

“I’m not usually bothered by heights, but that’s intense even for me. And I fell over a hundred feet from the air, once.”

At first Tom doesn’t catch it, still busy reeling in his memories of the place. When the words sink in though, he twists to stare at the boy, perplexed.

“Beg your pardon? Over a hundred feet? How?”

He shrugs, “Quidditch accident. It was actually Dumbledore who caught me. What was that spell again, Professor? We might need it again soon.” Harry laughs once, as if waiting for Dumbledore to turn around with a titter of his own and say ‘jolly good joke, my boy’. Instead, the old man continues looking down at the waters for another handful of seconds, seemingly deep in thought.

“Arresto Momentum.” Dumbledore eventually replies, stepping away from the cliff edge at last. He looks down at the grassy floor, looking for something. “Indeed, now that you mention Quidditch, Harry, I feel foolish having not thought to bring brooms so we could attempt to fly down to the cave opening. Alas, we’ll have to make do with what we have. Mr Riddle, if you could summon some of the nearby stones over here, please?”

Tom relishes his first opportunity to use Harry’s wand, so does as he’s asked without complaint. A couple dozen stones, all different sizes, come zooming from all around, stopping short of colliding with them to instead land at their feet in a pile.

“Lovely. Now, a little Transfiguration. We need these stones to be flatter and wider, big enough for us to step onto easily.” He mimes the shape he means with his fingers, holding them vaguely square shaped.

Several memories of his past Transfiguration classes run through his head as he squats down over the pile to begin, the magic coming easily as he visualises the shape he needs to make the small stones turn into. It’s a little easier because he’s not changing the material, only the form, and Tom absently registers Dumbledore explaining what they need them for to Harry while he works through the pile, stacking the new square chunks of stone on his left.

“We can not get to the mouth of the cave from the waters, otherwise I would have suggested we prepare a boat. The rocks at the side are the only way down, near impossible to achieve for Muggle’s alone, but with magic here to help us,” He gestures to the pile of rocks Tom has just finished altering, “we should be able to make it. Ah, very good work, Mr Riddle. Ten points to Slytherin.”

Tom determinedly ignores him. The praise means nothing to him anymore.

“Now, with some very strong sticking charm if you would Mr Riddle, the new shape of the stones will act as small platforms for us to step down on. We will have to go one at a time, I should think, so as not to strain the magic holding us up.”

The wind whips up Tom’s hair in a frenzy, but he doesn't falter as he goes back over to the edge of the cliff to direct the new stone slabs into place. Dumbledore, he isn’t too bothered by, but he certainly doesn't want to go taking an icy dip in the waters below. So with his wand, patient and focused in a way he’s not had the chance to be in forever, Tom spaces the stepping stones one by one along the rocky sides of the cliff, going steadily downwards towards the ledge that leads to the cave, and making sure to imbue each one with as much will and power as he can. He leans over and squints as he tries to judge how close together they need to be so that the gap inbetween isn’t too large, but once he’s done he feels fairly confident that they’ll manage going down alright.

Coming back up, though, might be a whole different story.

But for now he steps back as the other two inspect his work. The sunlight is fading even more quickly now, so there really isn't any time to lose if they want to see the stones they’ll be stepping on.

“I will go first. Wait for me to wave from the bottom, then you come down, Harry. Then Tom.” The old wizard decides and they nod in agreement, secretly relieved to have to be the first. Dumbledore takes a moment to shove the ends of his robes into his long, stripey pink socks, so that the fabric doesn’t hinder his movements so much.

“Sir, are you sure this is a good idea?” Harry cuts in just then, chewing his nails. His eyes are wide just like an owls and his face is completely washed out with worry.

“Oh no,” Dumbledore said calmly, “I am not sure of anything at all, my boy.”

Clearly, this brings Harry no comfort.

They all move to the edge together where they can see the first slab sticking out, just a little ways down. Tom holds his breath as the man gingerly sets his foot onto it, testing the stability. It stays put, of course, so Dumbledore shuffles his other foot onto it as well and then begins his descent.

He braces both hands against the side of the cliff as he starts to step sideways down each step, shuffling and pausing on each one to make sure his feet are under him properly, before stepping to the one below. It must be hell on his legs, which are already weak with the curse, and from where they watch over him Tom can see that he has to stop for long moments to catch his breath, facing the cliff face with his head tilted down. The long, white tail of his beard picks up in the wind, which is trying its best to take the man up into the air as well, ripping at the loose hems of his robes with insistent pulls.

Harry presses himself fully against Tom’s side, barely breathing.

“You can do it, sir. You can do it.” The boy whispers under his breath with steadfast belief. As if the wizard can hear the words spoken, perhaps carried to him on the breeze, Dumbledore starts off again with renewed vigor, steadily getting closer and closer to the cave entrance. The waves thrash and throw themselves against the cliffs, each impact sending the spray up higher and higher.

Tom watches on, his pulse fluttering rapidly with half fear, half thrill. With the dwindling light and the dark waters, the lower down Dumbledore goes the harder it is to see him. Another huge wave comes up suddenly hiding the man from view and no doubt drenching him. Only, when it recedes, he’s nowhere to be seen.

Harry lurches forwards with a cry, going to his knees and nearly toppling over the edge himself if not for Tom, who leaps forward to hold him firmly in place, stopping him from falling. But he too frantically searches the surface of the sea below for any sign of Dumbledore, ears rushing with his galloping pulse.

“Oh god, he’s gone. He’s gone, he’s gone! Tom, he’s fallen in, he’s gone!” Harry is quickly falling into hysterics, gasping as his voice goes high in distress. “What do we do, what do we do!”

They look over again, searching endlessly - but then, from the corner of his eye, Tom sees something.

“There, there! Look!”

Not from the water like they’d thought, but from the lip of the cave entrance that juts out, Dumbledore stands waving the end of his long beard in the air like a white flag, the bright colour of it the only thing making him stand out from so far away and in the limited light.

Harry laughs, half delighted and half despaired. He drops his head in defeat and blows out a tremendous breath.

“Holy bloody Christ.” The boy gasps, weary and exhausted already, and he’s not even had his turn yet.

Tom turns his gaze up to the night where it darkens evermore, worried about their impaired visibility. Impulsively, he reaches his palm out to rest it on the exposed skin of Harry’s neck, giving in to the strange urge within him that pushes him to reach out and comfort the wild haired wizard.

“Your turn, Harry.” He reminds him gently, coaxing him to his feet. Harry looks out over the sea with trepidation, a shudder racking his slight frame where he’s standing still only in his shirt from this morning. A shirt, and those stupid baggy jeans of his. Without care for how much Harry might like them, Tom sends a hasty slicing charm at the hems of them, freeing up his movement considerably.

“Thanks,” He whispers, the word almost getting lost in the road of the wind.

“I won’t let you fall.” Tom promises in return, finding himself truly meaning the assurance for once. He would not like to see Harry plunging to his death today, nor indeed any day soon. It’s shocking really, to have grown attached to him so quickly, but it’s something to think about later. For now, Harry nods his head up and down quickly a few times to bolster himself, then he straightens his glasses and moves towards the edge.

Like Dumbledore, he eases himself onto the first stone slowly, gripping onto the grassy verge with white knuckled fingers. Once he’s got his footing, he sends a grin Tom’s way, the edges of it wavering only a little.

“See you at the bottom.” He says before moving down to the second stone step, gaze downwards as he focuses on his steps carefully.

Tom stays standing close to the edge, feeling infinitely worse than he did watching Dumbledore. He doesn’t lift his stare away from him for a second, following the boy's progress with his eyes watering from not blinking, his skin feeling clammy and hot despite the cutting cold of the wind. Being much younger and not recently nearly killed off by a curse, Harry goes a lot quicker and steadier than the old wizard before him, not letting himself stop to rest and instead powering through it all in one go.

He makes it down without any issues in half the time Dumbledore took and though he blinks out of sight at the end the same way, Tom doesn’t let himself panic. Seconds later, the white of Dumbledore’s beard is waved again, signaling for him to go down too.

Though he believes in his own power and ability, it is still nerve wracking to step out onto the first stone step, hanging effectively unsupported over hundreds of feet of open air, with an unforgiving sea waiting to claim him at the bottom. Still, he positions his body sideways and clings onto the rocky side of the cliff as starts climbing downwards, heart quivering and overly aware of the fact that by becoming human again, he doesn’t have a Horcrux to fall back on anymore.

With the Diary destroyed, there was nothing tying Tom to life, nothing in place to allow him to return should he accidentally fall to the rocky, choppy waters below.

He’ll definitely have to rectify that little problem soon, although preferably without Harry finding out about it. The lower down he gets, the slippier the slabs become and he finds his muscles beginning to burn fiercely as he tries to maintain his core balance. He ends up shredding his palms to bloody ribbons from gripping the rough wall so hard, but he can see the lip of the cave clearer now, so he doesn’t delay.

The waves crash again, closer and louder, but Tom manages to avoid it by jumping from the last slab onto the solid floor of the cave, only his back getting wet from the impact of it. Harry darts forward from where he and Dumbledore had been waiting and offers his hand out, which Tom surprises even himself by reaching out and clinging onto tightly, allowing Harry to bring him steadily back onto his feet.

“Okay?” Harry checks, voice wavering. His cheeks are flushed from the cold winds, and his hands still holding on to Tom’s are frigid and stiff. Tom nods, unable to speak just yet, in case his heart where it's been lodged in his throat tumbles straight out. He looks around and sees that the small space is just big enough for the three of them to stand side by side while they catch their breaths and let their nervous limbs settle again. The wind whistles and howls, echoing more than it should in the small space.

Tom lights up his wand with a lumos, the bluish glow highlighting an opening at the back of the entrance, winding away into the deep and the dark of the cliffs.

“No time to waste. We need to take advantage of the lower tide.” Dumbledore says, his voice a quiet whisper as if not to disturb the stillness.

As the one with the only source of light, Tom takes up the lead to guide them through the tunnel, its passageway so narrow they have to walk in single file. The walls drip wet and the ground is slimy with seaweed, making them falter and slip occasionally. But it doesn’t take long before the tunnel opens up to the cave, although it’s no bigger than the classrooms back in Hogwarts and it is entirely empty of anything, let alone the Horcrux they’re searching for.

“It’s empty.” He mutters, disappointed that the trip and its dangers had been for nothing. Voldemort must not have returned to the cave of his youth, or if he had, he’d found it lacking.

Dumbledore doesn’t seem to think the same.

“To the eye, perhaps. But can’t you feel it, Mr Riddle? Magic has known this place.”

He looks around again, sceptical, but closes his eyes and allows his magic to spill out, reaching and searching for something. Then, yes, he does feel another magical presence, although it’s stagnant as if it’s been sitting for a long time untouched, unchecked. But it is there.

Tom looks around at Dumbledore. “A concealed entrance?”

The man nods. Harry, at his side, has been silently observing them and he looks warily around at the dark room with pursed lips.

“So a secret entrance inside his hidden cave,” The boy mutters, “Not paranoid at all, is he?”

“Indeed, Voldemort seems to have taken tremendous caution in guarding this place, which leads me to believe we are on the right track. Now just to get through.” Dumbledore steps forward to run both of his hands along the walls, his ears tilted as if listening for something within.

Just then, an idea strikes Tom.

“Open.” Tom commands, slipping into the tongue of the snakes. Much to his frustration however, the entrance does not reveal itself even to Parseltongue. He scowls even as Harry nudges his arm companionably.

“Worth a shot,” The boy reassures him, speaking low so as to not disturb Dumbledore’s concentration.

It takes a few minutes of Dumbledore walking back and forth, inspecting the walls and tapping in random places, listening carefully. Then, he turns back to face them once more.

“The entrance is hidden behind what seems to be a paywall, so to speak. It will require something in return, a sacrifice.”

“Sacrifice?” Harry repeats, a wary note to his tone. Admittedly Tom has immediately begun picturing murdering Dumbledore where he stands and offering him up, but his daydreams are soon dispersed when Dumbledore smiles amusedly at Harry and shakes his head.

“Nothing so bad as what you’re no doubt imagining Harry. It will require some blood, but I have come prepared for such things,” He reaches into the folds of his robe sleeves and slips something out, a glint of silver catching in the wandlight. Quicker than Tom or Harry can react, he unsheathed the small knife from its casing and drew it across the destroyed skin of his injured hand.

“Professor!” Harry protests, jumping forwards as if to stop him, but the blood is already flowing steadily. Tom is intrigued to see it is still as red as it should be, spilling fast and free despite the outward appearance of the hand and how decayed it looks.

How interesting.

Dumbledore moves his hand up and allows the blood to drip down onto the rocky wall, the three of them watching keenly as it seems to sink into the stone, resulting in a silvery arched doorway making itself visible at last.

Whatever lies beyond is cloaked by complete darkness.

“After me, I think.” Dumbledore says quietly. Tom wills his lumos a little brighter as they follow.

Impossibly, the sight that meets their eyes is one of a great, vast lake, stretching so far that Tom could not see the other side of it. How could it be here? Is this all part of the enchantments guarding the Horcrux?

Tom decides it must be, that the true cave is only the small one they had just been in, not this space with its high ceilings of bare rock. The water was completely and utterly still, undisturbed by stray drips or natural movement, which told Tom that it was not natural, not at all.

The darkness was dense, cloying in its overbearing, almost physical weight.

“Let us walk,” Dumbledore says under his breath. “Be very careful not to step into the water. Stay close.”

They set off cautiously, footsteps echoing around the cavern as they walked along the narrow edged path by the water. The view however did not change, no distance walked altered the fact that the solid wall stayed at one side of them and the dangerous expanse of the waters on the other. Tom realises further out into the water is a greenish sort of light, standing adrift and alone like a lighthouse drawing their attention. Or, more aptly, like a deadly Siren calling them to their deaths.

The Horcrux must be out there.

Harry is clearly of the same impression.

“Sir, do you think the Horcrux is out there?” He asks, pointing to the light.

“Yes, I’m sure it is. The question is, how do we get to it?”

“Couldn’t we just try a Summoning Charm?” He follows up, colouring when Tom looks sideways at him for it.

Dumbledore doesn’t call him out for the somewhat silly question though, instead stopping and turning to face the two of them.

“We could certainly attempt to. Mr Riddle, would you mind?”

Tom bites his lip, annoyed, but acquiesces with only a small eye roll.

“Accio Horcrux!” He says aloud, just so Harry can’t claim that he didn’t even try properly. The Horcrux does not come sailing towards them as Tom predicted, but instead, with a reverberating and sudden crash, something large and pale erupts from the water a couple of feet away from them. In his surprise Tom lets his wand arm drop, so they do not see exactly what the thing is before it vanishes under the surface of the black water again, the crash sending ripples lapping at their feet.

Harry had scrambled back in shock, pressing himself against the wall away from the water, which had already returned to that unnerving stillness with strange speed. Unnatural, just as Tom thought.

“Did you think that would happen, sir?” Harry gasps, half accusingly.

“I knew there would be something waiting to attack if we made any obvious moves to claim the Horcrux. Better to get an idea of what we’re facing sooner rather than later.”

“But what was it?”

“I am not certain, although I have no doubt that there will be more than that one.”

“We’re going to need a boat.” Tom pipes up, coming to the realisation before the other two; If they can’t go through the water, and they can’t go around the edge, then they’ll have to go over.

They walk the bank a little further around, all the while letting his magic figuratively sniff out any other traces of magic for signs of something to aid them. He doesn’t know how far they walk, seeing as the illusion of the room makes it impossible to track, but eventually his sweeping trips up on something, some ping of energy nearby.

Tom stops and allows Dumbledore and Harry to peer over his shoulder as he waves his empty hand through the air, reaching for something beyond his vision. Then, he feels it - magic springs up to meet him, to answer, and all of a sudden Tom finds himself holding a thick, coppery chain which has leapt up from the depths of the lake to land in his palm. Harry jolts but Dumbledore smiles widely, a beaming proud thing that Tom has never seen directed at him before.

“Very well spotted, Mr Riddle.” The man beams.

“How did you know that was there?” Astonishment colours Harry’s tone and Tom can not help the smug feeling that fills him then. He puffs himself up.

“I could feel the traces of it sitting dormant and ready to be called upon. It was simple, really.” Tom brags. Harry squints and pouts.

“Come along then, boys. Let’s cross the water.” Dumbledore gets them back on track. Tom finishes pulling the boat to the surface, a small dodgy looking thing of wood that does not look as if it will hold all of them. Harry climbs in first hesitantly, twisting to help Dumbledore in second, with Tom pulling up the rear. Almost before his right foot has even left the bank the boat pulls off on its own, making Tom wobble precariously before he grabs onto the wooden apex for support. He looks backwards as the boat moves further into the waters, and it does not take long before he can't even see the bank or the walls of the cave, seemingly setting out on a never ending open sea of no waves.

At some point, Harry lets out a startled shout and Tom whips his head and wand around to see what’s happened. The boy is staring into the water, mouth gaping open in horrified surprise.

“What is it?” Tom demands, looking down as well. He doesn’t see anything.

“I saw a hand in the water, a human hand!”

Tom’s eyebrows hike up. They all look down as he points the beam of his wand down closer to the surface, and then-

The body of a dead man lying face up just inches below them, his eyes open and misty white, robes and hair swirling around him like smoke. Tom swallows thickly, throat suddenly feeling extremely dry.

“Bodies. The lake is full of dead bodies.” He states flatly and Harry lets out a high and strangled noise, apparently unable to hold it back. He keeps his eyes trained down at his bent knees instead, avoiding looking at the waters at all costs, but Tom makes sure to keep his eyes peeled for any sign of movement or reaction from the bodies, just in case.

The boat sails on.

That strange greenish light pulses and grows brighter as they approach the small island at the centre of the lake, which is made up of an expanse of flat stone no bigger than the Headmasters Office. It feels like an eternity has passed since they were there, sitting behind Dumbledore’s desk, and not only barely over an hour ago.

“Careful not to touch the water,” Dumbledore reminds them before they all step carefully out of the boat in turns.

Standing as the focal point of the island is a plinth made of stone, atop which sits a crystal basin. Seeing as there is nothing else for them to inspect, they approach the basin side by side to see that it is full of a strange emerald liquid, which is the source of that eerie glowing green light.

“What is it?” asked Harry.

“I am not sure.” Dumbledore replies. He moves as if to put his finger into it without thought, and now Tom can understand how he so easily got taken in by his Ring’s curse. Was he trying to speed up his death, or was he always this reckless?

Harry’s abrupt yell is for naught, though, as Dumbledore’s fingers hit an invisible barrier, stopping them from coming into contact with the mysterious liquid.

“You try, Harry.” The man orders but the same happens again. Tom tries as well, just in case his shared soul with Voldemort can somehow allow him to sidestep the enchantment in place, but no success. He then cycles through every diagnostic spell he can think of to try and determine what they must do with it, but each one comes back negative. The liquid cannot be vanished, touched, or changed in any way to allow them to check if anything rests at the bottom. Tom drops his wand when the last test comes back the same as all the others, and Dumbledore hums a considering noise, twirling the end hairs of his beard around his finger.

“I believe that reveals to us that the potion is intended for drinking.” He says decisively. Tom had the nasty feeling that he was on the right track, seeing as nothing else was working and this is Voldemort they were talking about. Furthermore, if caves, blood wards, Inferi and potions of unknown properties are what stands in their way for this Horcrux; what are the obstacles in place for the other ones?

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Harry cautions but Dumbledore seems dead set on the idea.

“Only by drinking the potion will we be able to see what lies at the bottom of the basin.” The man says, ignoring Harry who starts shaking his head madly, waving his palms around.

“But you’re already so ill, you can’t drink it! It’ll kill you off here and now!” The boy tries to get the Headmaster to see reason, obviously entirely unaware that Dumbledore likey fully intends to die here. Tom doesn’t know why he wants to cut his already dwindling time left shorter, especially when there’s no doubt more information he could give them, but who is he to stand in the way of an old man's wishes?

Dumbledore spins up some excuse to the bespeckled boy about how he does not think the potion would fully kill anyone, that Voldemort would have much preferred they live long enough for interrogation, or at least long enough to severely regret attempting to steal whatever lies in the basin.

“So I’ll drink it instead!” Harry tries, desperate now. Tom makes no move to volunteer himself for the task, and wouldn’t even if Dumbledore was not so set on doing it himself.

“No, Harry. I am older, and much less valuable than you. My mind is made up.”

Seeing that the man will not back down, Harry drops his shoulders in defeat, a worried, scowling expression on his face.

“Fine, sir.” He says shortly.

“Good. Now, both of you, listen closely. I need your word that you will do as I command. Undoubtedly this potion is going to fight against being drunk, and it will not be gentle with it. It may paralyze me, make me forget where I am, what I am here for, or sow so much pain in me that I become distracted or incapable in some other way. It will be down to you two to make sure I keep drinking, even if you have to force me, so that we can empty the basin and get the Horcrux.”

He waits for their response. Harry’s mouth opens and closes as he struggles to speak, looking completely perturbed by what the man had just said.

“Professor, I don’t think I..” He begins weakly but the headmaster cuts across him.

“I need your word Harry. We must get this Horcrux.” He looks at Harry imploringly, faded blue eyes filled with resolution. “Please.”

That last word, said so softly, is what makes Harry finally duck his head and nod reluctantly in agreement. Tom watches him, practically tasting the turmoil rolling off him.

“Yes, okay. You have my word.” He says, troubled. Dumbledore nods graciously before turning to send a loaded look to Tom. Remembering his earlier promise, and having no real hang ups about it, he nods as well.

“You have my word.”

“Thank you. A cup, if you’d be so kind Mr Riddle.”

So Tom conjures up a small goblet, handing it over to Dumbledore who takes it over to the basin. With bated breath, they all watch the goblet hit the surface and stop for a moment, resisting, until it then sinks under and begins to fill. Apprehension for what is to come next is rife between all of them, no noise besides their up-ticked breathing and the quiet drops of the potion falling off the now full goblet.

Dumbledore raises it in a mock of a toast and then brings it to his lips to drain the liquid in one go. Tom holds his breath, heart thundering in his chest as he waits for something to happen, a reaction of some kind.

“How do you feel?” Harry anxiously whispers, his arms folded tightly against his chest as if to stop himself from reaching out.

The old man doesn’t answer, only shaking his head with his eyes squeezed tightly shut. Blindly, he shoves the goblet into the basin again and drains the next cup fully, then again, and again a third time, all the while staying hauntingly silent. Tom and Harry watch on, with fascination for the former and with dread for the latter.

Then, half way through the fourth gobletful, Dumbledore's staggers and falls harshly over the basin, hanging over it and panting heavily with his eyes still closed. Harry goes to step forward, but Tom whips his arm out to catch him before he can get too close.

“We don’t know what he could be capable of like this.” He whispers close to the boy's ear, just for them. Harry sets his jaw stubbornly, shaking his head in disagreement.

“Professor Dumbledore?” He calls over, making sure to keep his tone low and gentle. “Can you hear me?”

The man doesn’t answer, though his face is twitching rapidly under the throes of whatever is happening to him, eyeballs rolling around under their closed lids as if looking for something. His fingers are shaking where he’s clinging onto the basin for strength and the goblet, still half full, nearly slips from out of his hand.

Harry rushes forward to catch it, putting him closer to the man. Tom stays close behind, wand held firmly in hand at the ready.

“I don’t want…Don’t make me..” Dumbledore eventually speaks in a pained, frightened voice that Tom had not heard before, even in the shack when the curse was eating its way through him. Whatever this potion was, it was hurting the man much worse than he had.

He’s almost jealous.

The frail wizard speaks again, more of a moan akin to a child in pain. “...don’t like… want to stop.”

Harry’s voice quivers but he determinedly tries to draw himself up, a false bravado etched into his shoulders. “You.. you can’t stop, Professor. You’ve got to keep drinking, remember?”

There’s no answer. Tom takes a breath, holds it.

“We’ll have to take over.” He says. The goblet is still half full and the basin looks like it’s barely been touched, still so much left to get through before they can see what it holds.

Harry nods. “I’ll do it.”

He approaches the still hunched over form of Dumbledore, hesitating before bringing his free hand up to rest on the man’s boney shoulder. “Here, Professor. Let me..”

Though he wants to be gentle, Harry has to force the goblet to Dumbledore’s lips as the man begins to struggle against it, holding it in place until the last of it is drained. As Harry goes to fill it again, Dumbledore continues to speak broken sentences, interrupted by his pained groaning.

“No…I don’t want to…I don’t want to…Let me go..”

“I’m here, it’s alright. I’m here.” Harry attempts to soothe him, repeating the words over and over, but Dumbledore pays no heed to them, unable to process that he is being spoken to at all. Tom watches as Harry refills the goblet and brings it up to Dumbledore’s lips once more.

“Make it stop, make it stop,” Pleads the shivering old man, weakly moving his lips away before Harry guides him back.

“This will make it stop,” He pours the liquid down into Dumbledore’s mouth.

Even before he’s done swallowing, Dumbledore screams, a gargled, agonising noise that echoes around the cavern, carrying across the vast black lake before rebounding back again, tenfold. Tom’s ears ring with it.

“No, no, no, no, I can’t, I can’t, don’t make me, I don’t want to!” The spiel begins again, begging and pleading for release that neither he nor Harry can grant him. The boy is shaking in the aftermath of Dumbledore’s pained shrieking, his hands barely able to hold the goblet steady where he dunks it into the basin yet again. At least now, they seem to be making more progress and the levels are dropping, but Tom isn’t sure how much more the Headmaster can take before he falls apart.

Again, Harry tries to comfort Dumbledore, or perhaps he says it for his own benefit, as he brings the goblet up again.

“It’s all right, Professor, it’s all right. Nothing’s happening to you, you’re safe, it isn’t real, I swear it isn’t real! Take this, now, take this…”

This time, once he’s drunk the gobletful, Dumbledore sinks down from where he’d still been clinging to the side of the basin, landing on his knees with a harsh crack as his body shakes apart. He begins to sob, great rolling tears streaking down his aged face, which is twisted up with such pain that he is nearly unrecognisable from the affable teacher of Tom’s youth.

“It’s all my fault, all my fault,” The wizard cries, whimpering and yelping like an injured animal caught in a trap. “Please make it stop, I know I did wrong, oh please make it stop and I’ll never, never again…”

Harry’s voice goes tight, his words cracking with emotion. “This will make it stop, sir, I promise.”

The next gobletful is raised to Dumbledore's lips.

Tom can tell the next steps of the potions effects are kicking in, as he starts looking up and around in the air as if seeing something he and Harry can’t, cowering in fright even as he still begs repeatedly, His limbs flail about, trying to fight off the invisible forces and he nearly knocks the goblet Harry has refilled again to the floor with his sporadic movements.

“Don’t hurt them, don’t hurt them, please, please, it’s my fault, hurt me instead!” Dumbledore howls, the words making sense only to him.

Harry finally falters, the burden of having to keep supplying the poison becoming too much to bear. His face is white and harrowed as he listens to the words Dumbledore is wailing, slamming his hands onto the stone floor and screaming again, high and cutting sounds, cutting straight to Harry’s soft heart.

His arm drops, his shoulders curve in and slump.

Tom steps forward, slipping the goblet from his loose fingered grasp.

“I will do it,” Tom reassures him. He scoops up the potion until the goblet is full and turns around, arm raised. The sight of him approaching seems to register like a threat, because Dumbledore tries to claw across the ground to escape, nearly dropping into the body infested waters if not for Harry quickly catching him and holding him in place.

“Please, please, please, no…not that, not that, I’ll do anything…”

“Hold him steady Harry,” Tom orders so he can tip the liquid down Dumbledore’s gaping mouth, where he’s screeching and wailing for relief, the sound of his voice sounding scratched and ruined from the continued abuse.

“No more, please, no more..”

On the next scoop, Tom feels the bottom of the basin scraping against the goblet. Evidently, Harry hears it too, as he leans close to try and catch Dumbledore’s attention.

“We’re nearly there, Professor. Drink this one, please, we’re nearly done!”

But Dumbledore clearly is reaching his limit.

“I want to die! Make it stop, make it stop, I want to die!”

Devastation rips through Harry’s features, his eyes squeezing shut even as he continues to hold Dumbledore upright for Tom to guide the potion to his lips.

Again, the goblet is refilled. Dumbledore gulps it down obediently, but he screams and writhes in place on the floor, clawing until his fingers turn bloody. Harry tries in vain to stop him.

“Professor, don’t! You’ll be okay, please don’t-!”

“KILL ME!” Dumbledore yells, a final echoing plea.

Tom scoops the goblet through the potion one last time, seeing a glint of gold as he turns away to bestow the final cup full.

“This one will,” He assures Dumbledore, who seems to pay attention enough to that promise that he allows Tom to tip the last of it in his mouth, until every little drop is gone.

There’s a moment of deafening silence until the wizard gives a long and scraping, rattling gasp before keeling over face down, his body prone from either actually dying, or from his body giving up to pass out. Either way, Harry shoots forward with a shout, turning Dumbledore over onto his back and struggling to wake him.

“Wake up! Wake up, you’re okay, you’re fine! Please, wake up! Tom, Tom!” Those bright eyes, red rimmed with emotion, cut right through Tom as he turned with a cry. “Cast a rennervate on him!”

Though he itches to check the basin, to see if that glint of gold belonged to the Cup, or the Locket, or something else, he steps forward and casts the spell with a flash of red.

Nothing happens at first. Harry shakes Dumbledore again, frantic, and Tom sends another rennervate. This time, there’s movement as his eyes flicker and roll beneath his lids.

“Sir, are you okay?” Harry presses, insistent. Dumbledore still doesn’t move to speak.

Uninterested, Tom turns his back on the two of them, directing his attention instead into the now empty basin. Or, not so empty, as at the bottom, sitting oh so innocently, is Slytherin’s Locket in all of its glory.

The memories had not done it justice, had not allowed all of its detail to show through properly. It was chunky, gaudy in some ways, the links of the chain large and heavy looking. The locket itself shone brightly, that serpentine S standing out proud and true.

And it was all his.

His fingers burn to reach in and take it, to claim it as his own, so he does so with his breath held behind his teeth, wide eyed with wonder and awe. It’s bitingly cold where it touches his skin, either from sitting in this cave for so long or because of its true nature. He folds his fingers around it, clutching it close and tight to his chest as he lets his eyes fall shut to listen.

There’s nothing.

Tom furrows his brows, straining. He vaguely registers a noise behind him, of water lapping at the edges of the platform.

The Locket doesn’t make a noise. How could that be? Tom looks down at it in his palm, flipping it over to smooth his thumb thoughtfully over the back. Was it because he wasn’t the main piece of soul? Is that why he could feel no connection to it?

There’s no time to puzzle over it. Behind him, there’s a yell of surprise and fear and that lapping water sound he’d been ignoring turns into frenzied splashing. Tom whips around, his wand and the Locket held tight in each hand, just in time to see Harry being surrounded by the hundreds of Inferi that have apparently awoken. Men, women, children, all with sunken, sightless eyes, move towards the rock and its occupants. Harry stands frozen protectively over Dumbledore, who doesn’t appear any more alert, leaving Tom to be the one to rush forward with his arm raised and his magic ready to strike. Defence Against the Dark Arts, sixth year textbook; Inferi, like most classified dark creatures, the most effective way to defeat an Inferius, or plural Inferi, is to attack it with fire. In cases of a single Inferius, other offensive spells may work to weaken them, but against multiple at one time, only fire can dispose of them. Note that Inferi are already dead, and therefore cannot feel pain or take damage like regular wizards or creatures might.

The memory of that lesson guides Tom’s magic as he whirls his wand through the air to yell the incantation for the most powerful fire he knows.

Fiendfyre.

The effect is instantaneous. The creatures that had been clawing on their skeletal hands and knees towards him immediately shrink back, afraid. The green fire is uncontained, reaching its embers out to strike down each undead body, sending them to their final deaths. It’s a mercy, really, Tom thinks, before he turns to an astonished Harry.

“We need to leave.” He orders, feeling sweat already starting to gather on his skin from the flames.

The only trouble with Fiendfyre was that it was mostly uncontrollable, even more so when more power was pushed into, which Tom had just done. If he really tried, he could probably have it recede a little, but he's more than happy to let it blaze this place to the ground, seeing as they’d gotten what they’d come for. Already he can sense that some of the magic of the place is failing, which means they need to get out now. They’re standing under a cliff of who knows how much weight, and he is not keen to be here when it collapses inwards.

Harry nods in agreement, but looks around despairingly. “How? The boat from before is gone, and this fire...”

“I think I can Apparate,” Tom pants, but finds he’s right. The magic shielding this place from being found was snapping, breaking under the strain of the fire, and the cloying, trapping feeling of the wards is gone. “Yes! I can! Come here, quickly.” He holds his palm out to Harry who moves to grab it, but then stops suddenly.

“Dumbledore, we need to get Dumbledore!” He cries, back treading. Above their heads, ominous cracks are starting to appear, dust and rubble falling down into the water, sending rippling waves. The inferno rages on, and Tom can barely breath.

He grabs Harry’s shirt before he can go too far from him.

“Stop! Leave him, he’s done for!” Tom has to shout as the noise in the cave has become deafening, the shifts of the rock all around them, the way the bodies of the undead shriek as they burn.

Still, Harry seems uncaring of all of this, staring at Tom with horror, anger. “Leave him? No! NO! I am not leaving him, let me go-” He tries to yank away from Tom’s grip.

But Tom hangs on tight, his knuckles aching under the force of it. He shoves the locket still held in his other hand into his trouser pocket, using it instead to dig his fingers into Harry’s shoulder, holding tight.

Harry seems to realise what he intends to do, green eyes going wide.

“Tom, don’t-”

The rocky ceiling gives an almighty crack as it splits for good, the magic and the fire finally causing it to give way. The cave, the island, the lake, everything shakes as the cliff starts to fall and Tom’s grip does not loosen for a second despite Harry’s desperate attempts to flee, reaching his free hand out to the prone body of Dumbledore still on the rock.

“Dumbledore, I have to get to him, please!! No - NO!! DUMBLEDORE!!!” His devastated, desperate screams are lost to the ruin of the cave, to the fire.

Tom holds tight to the boy and spins on his heel, disapparating.

Chapter Text

Whether or not Tom had meant for them to land right in the middle of an occupied alley, full of blinding bright neon lights and signs from the nearby clubs, Harry doesn’t know. Their colours all leak and merge together, reflecting on the wet pavement as he vaguely hears Tom cursing at his side, while he of course stumbles out of the apparition on weak knees. Harry’s mind is rolling, reeling, and everything feels very far away and muffled, like he’s somehow under water.

Tom sticks close beside Harry, remaining stiff and alert as he takes in their surroundings. One end of the alley leads out onto a busy road, several cars passing by in quick blurs, and the other end appears to be where the noise is coming from, a buzz of chatter and music. There’s also a group of barely dressed women a little further up, huddled together smoking and laughing. When they fail to react to two teenage boys suddenly appearing out of nowhere, Tom’s shoulders finally drop as his nerves are set at ease.

“It’s fine, they’re all drunk. None of them should remember seeing us appear, if they noticed at all.” Tom murmurs low, for Harry alone to hear. He doesn’t reply, staring blankly down at his feet, his shoddily chopped jeans.

There’s a thumping bass of dance music leaking out of one of the clubs, perfectly matched to the pulsing of Harry’s heart, each thud a horrible reminder of what had just happened, who he’d just left behind. He squeezes his eyes shut tight when they grow hot with tears, biting down on his trembling lip to stop the sob that longs to break free.

“We need to move,” Tom decides, starting to walk off down the alley, past the women. When Harry fails to follow, feeling as if his feet are stuck cemented to the dirty pavement below, the boy doubles back and grabs hold of Harry’s hand tightly.

“Don’t let go,” The boy says and then starts off walking again, this time towing Harry behind like an absentminded child.

He doesn’t feel far off from that, truthfully.

As they walk, London’s nightlife flashes and blares through all of his senses, the brightly lit restaurants blurring together in wet, wobbly blobs, the hum of angry, beeping traffic barely registering in his already ringing ears. Tom’s hold on his hand is the only thing stopping Harry from dropping into a ball on the floor and curling up, never to move again. He feels completely numb.

Like a nightmare seared into his brain, all Harry can think about is Dumbledore’s face, the agony and suffering that had etched itself into every one of the old man’s features, twisting them up until he hadn’t been able to see past it to the person he knew underneath. That potion had worked its sinister poison through him so quickly, either by design or because he’d been so weak already.

Harry should have tried harder to be the one to drink it, to share the burden at least… Instead, he now had the memory of forcing all of it into Dumbledore’s mouth, holding him as he trembled so violently under the onslaught. The gut wrenching cries he has so tortuously sobbed, begging for death, would echo in the caverns of Harry’s heart for the rest of his life.

And now, unthinkable as it is, Harry knows in his heart that Dumbledore really is dead, gone forever. The cave had been falling, everything within it destined for dust and rubble. Dumbledore’s body would never be found from the ruin of that cave, Harry would never see him again, and the last moments of another person he loves are tainted, stained, by the pain and violence of Voldemort once more.

Harry loses his fight with the tears in his eyes, and they cut hot paths down his face as they carry on speeding down the different streets, winding down pathways and cutting across roads with no real aim, no destination. Because where are they meant to go, what are they meant to do now?

Dumbledore had left them this mission, this task, but he was gone before Harry really felt like he was ready to start. He was meant to have until the end of the summer; that’s what the old headmaster had said to him, that first day at the castle. It wasn’t even the end of July.

Now, it’s just him and Tom, who Harry wasn’t sure he even wanted to be near to at this moment. After all, it was Tom’s fault Dumbledore had been that way in the first place, so weak and depleted that he couldn’t even use his magic, his wand. If he had been stronger, healthier, would anything be different? He probably would have still insisted on taking the potion himself, but if he’d had his magic, maybe they’d have been able to get out of the cave safely without it coming down on top of them, the way Tom’s fire had made it do.

Perhaps the worst thing though, the thing that has Harry’s entire chest feeling like it’s being squeezed in a vice, is that Dumbledore had been waking up. Harry had managed to rouse him enough to get him to speak, and he’d been asking for water. So Harry had rushed to grab the empty goblet and go down to the water, which was when those nightmarish bodies had started to emerge, heading right for them. Tom had finally stepped in, and then everything had happened so fast that Harry had barely been able to keep up.

But in those last few seconds before the apparition had taken hold to whisk him and Tom away, as he’d been crying out and straining to get to Dumbledore, Harry had looked across that stone island and locked eyes on twinkling, familiar blue. Dumbledore had been blinking away the haze of the potion in those final moments, awake and alert enough to look straight at Harry, to realise what was about to happen. But the man hadn’t looked pained, or frightened, or even angry.

No, he’d looked at Harry and smiled. That same little smile, the one he always used at the start of term feasts, and the end of year house cup announcements. Contented, happy. He had looked at Harry, right before he’d be crushed to death, and Dumbledore had been happy.

Harry gasps around his sob, unable to help the high, childish whine that bursts out of him as his lungs stutter and jump. His knees feel weak under him and he has to stop, has to dig his heels in and yank out of Tom’s hand to bend over and dry heave down on the wet pavement, hacking and choking. He feels like if he can do it hard enough, he can cough out his heart completely, if only to stop the way it’s cracking and breaking apart.

Tom had stopped as soon as Harry pulled out of his hold, standing awkwardly beside him as he’d hit his breaking point and now he sets a hesitant hand on Harry’s lower back, as if to comfort him. He wishes he had the energy to brush him off, not wanting to be touched, but all he can do is continue coughing and crying.

“Harry? What’s wrong with you?” Tom demands, completely befuddled by his behaviour. Harry only shakes his head, moaning miserably.

He can’t explain this to Tom, who would never feel the same pain Harry did for the loss of Dumbledore, who would never understand the heartache he’s feeling for having left him.

A group of rowdy men pass close by just then, calling and jeering at them.

“Better out than in, mate!” One of them calls, sending the rest falling about laughing boisterously, a few clapping. They’re clearly well into a night out, and must think Harry is too, that he’s here throwing up his stomach over alcohol and not death.

Harry can feel how Tom’s palm on his back turns into a tight fist, indicating that his touchy temper is growing short, so he stands back up straight, trying to shake off the storm of depressing thoughts while breathing deeply in and out a few times. He shoots a small, strained smile to the drunken men, before grabbing Tom’s elbow and pulling them away from the group, in case he gets it in his head to start sending spells flying.

“I didn’t think the Muggles could get worse,” The boy spits, disgust and disdain colouring his tone. Harry rolls his eyes, scowling, and doesn’t bother to answer. His head feels even heavier now, stuffy with the onslaught of a headache and he knows he doesn’t want to be walking around London all the wretched night, so he keeps his eyes peeled for a quieter cafe and leads the way through the door at the first one he sees.

A bell rings overhead, but the two or three other occupants don’t bother to look up. There’s an old woman behind the till, and she offers them a hint of a smile as they come in, her kind face lined with tiredness.

“Order at the counter when you’re ready, lads.”

“Thanks.” Harry mutters. He goes right to the back wall, to the more secluded type of booths. He all but throws himself down in an ungainly heap, breathing short and shallow, bringing his fists up to rub his sore, itchy eyes, which sting against the sudden bright fluorescent lighting.

Tom’s legs brush against his as the other wizard seats himself with more grace. Harry doesn’t make any move to break the silence between them, too busy attempting not to break down into a screaming mess, and he only squints his eyes open again when he senses Tom getting back to his feet.

His hand darts out, grabbing onto Tom’s pale wrist.

“Where are you going?”

Tom simply offers a raised brow in return, jutting his thumb in the direction of the counter.

“I’m going to order. They’ll kick us out if we just sit here. What do you want?”

“Nothing.” Harry mumbles shortly and lets go, watching Tom closely as the boy goes up to the counter.

They haven’t got any money, so he wonders what the boy is going to do, then wonders if he even has the energy to kick up a fuss about them effectively stealing when he realises Tom will no doubt magic his way around it. Sure enough, he comes back with two steaming mugs in his hands, and a small plastic card with a number four written on it in marker. He sets the mugs down and happily slips the card into the metal little holder sitting in the middle of their table, sliding back into his seat with a grin.

“Tea,” Tom announces, pushing a mug Harry’s way and keeping one for himself, “and toast, when it comes.”

Harry watches, half astonished, as he shifts through the little packets on the table, finds the sugar, then goes about adding four of them into his mug. Tom then uses his torso to shield the mug a little before rotating his finger in circles over the top, the liquid inside stirring to match.

“What is wrong with you?” Harry asks, point blank. Tom’s brown eyes shot up to look at him, creasing as he smiles disarmingly.

“It’s only four packets, Harry, you barely get anything in these tiny things-” The boy starts, but Harry isn’t talking about the damn sugars. He ignores his own mug, leaning his upper body across the table to crowd in close.

“How can you just sit there when you’ve left a man to be crushed to death not even half an hour ago!” Harry spits in his best attempt of a whisper, gritting his teeth. Tom appears entirely unbothered, like he’s having the time of his life sitting here drinking tea. He’s calm, collected, totally unruffled where he looks cooly back at Harry, even having the nerve to shrug.

“You might not want to hear this right now, but he asked me to leave him. Ah ah-” He puts his finger up when Harry puffs up, ready to blow, “Dumbledore knew he was already dying, knew that we were about to do something dangerous. So he used Legilimency to tell me to make sure I got you out, to leave him.”

He sips on his drink when he’s done speaking, letting out a little ‘ah’ noise of satisfaction after. Harry stares at him for a loaded, stretched out moment, entirely disbelieving. Then, he laughs, a cold, biting thing full of mocking, not a noise he’s ever known himself to make. He leans across the table further, getting nose to nose with Tom.

“I. Don’t. Believe. You.”

The woman from earlier walks up just then with two plates of plain toast, little golden packets of butter besides them. Harry sits back so she can place them down, and makes sure to study her closely as he thanks her and hands over the number card from earlier. She doesn’t seem too out of it, but her eyes are a little unfocused. Hopefully just a Confundus, then.

She leaves them in a tense silence. Though Harry doesn’t want to, he pulls the tea and toast towards him and begins to eat, hoping it will help ease the hollow pit growing in his stomach. Tom doesn't say a word, only butters his toast and cuts it into neat little squares, looking out at the cafe rather than at Harry as he eats.

When Harry is done, he flicks the crumbs off his fingers, then swishes the last mouthful of tea around his mouth, swallowing with a loud gulp. He sets the mug down to the side of the table, then looks pointedly at the side of Tom’s face.

“Let me see it.” He finally says, ordering more than asking.

Coyly, Tom says, “See what?” Like he has no idea what Harry could mean. He’s not in the mood to play games right now though, so he kicks the boy firmly under the table, feeling no remorse for the way he jerks in place, hissing.

“You know what.”

Harry doesn’t think any of the other cafe dwellers are wizards, but he’s still not about to go spouting the name of such a dark item for all to hear. Tom purses his lips, looking just like Aunt Petunia, but he reaches into his pocket without further protest. He cradles it with care in both of his hands, sliding them across the table to then open them up slowly, revealing the treasure within.

The locket sits within, glinting innocuously in the light.

Harry leans forward and tentatively reaches his own hand out to pick it up, his breath held tight in his throat. For some reason, he expects something to happen, some reaction or feeling to tell him that he’s holding a Horcrux, a piece of Voldemort’s rotten soul.

But there’s nothing.

Still held above Tom’s cupped hands, Harry spins it around in his own grasp, somehow feeling disappointed.

“I expected it to feel..” He trails off, unsure of how to explain it. After all, the Diary hadn’t really let off any sort of feeling either, but still, Harry had known it was not just a plain old book when he got his hands on it.

Tom’s face is severe, his pale skin even more pallid than usual.

“I think something’s wrong with it.” The boy admits, barely a whisper like he can’t bear for it to be true. “I can’t hear it, I can’t feel anything when I touch it.”

In his chest, Harry’s heart thunders.

“What if it’s not..” a Horcrux, he doesn’t finish, but clearly he and Tom are on the same page.

They lean over the table, heads bumping slightly together where they look down at their cupped hands. With a shaking thumb, Harry digs his nail under the latch on one side of the locket. He darts a quick questioning look at Tom under his lashes and gets a small nod back.

With a quiet clink, Harry twists his thumb and the locket clasp falls open. They wait, barely moving or breathing, for something to happen; an attack, a sign, anything.

Once again, there’s nothing. No outward show of aggression as the Horcrux reacts to its attacker, no zing or spark of a spell, no oily lingerance of dark curses waiting to strike.

Tom is the one to reach a long finger out then, slipping it into the opening to slowly ease the Locket open until it sits like a book in their hands. Both sides of the piece of jewellery are lined with green velvet material, emerald just like the house it belongs to, and laying in place on one of the green sides is a small, square piece of paper, folded up neatly.

After a long pause full of surprise and dismay, Tom moves then to pick the paper up, beginning to unfold it as Harry watches on, nearly vibrating with the stress. He grips the Locket chain tight in his fist and Tom clears his throat, speaking in a hushed, thick tone.

“To the Dark Lord, I know I will be dead long before you read this, but I want you to know that it was I who discovered your secret. I have taken the real Horcrux and intend to destroy it as soon as I can. I face death in the hope that when you meet your match, you will be mortal once more. R.A.B”

“Oh god,” Harry chokes, eyes slamming shut. His head is still thumping with a vengeance, and the painful little twinges shooting around his skull are doubled as the words sink in. “It was for nothing. Dumbledore died for nothing.”

He drops the locket, the chain of it scraping loudly against the table, then folds his fingers through his hair and pulls, desperate for an end to this nightmare. Wake up, wake up, wake up he pleads, pulling and pulling on the strands. But nothing happens; Harry is awake and everything is horribly real. There is no escaping this reality.

The Locket is a fake, which means the real Horcrux is still out there somewhere, making their task all the more impossible. Harry very much doubts that luck is on their side enough for the person who wrote the note to have succeeded. Who were they? How did they find out about the Horcrux?

Harry looks up at Tom, twin mile long stares shared between them.

“What are we meant to do now?” He whispers despairingly. Everything had fallen apart in front of them, and nothing made sense anymore. The Horcrux Dumbledore lost his life for is a fake, and they have no idea where to begin on tracking the real one down, let alone any of the others.

Unfortunately, Tom has no answer to give, no reassurance or smart ideas to share.

“I don’t know,” Is all he says, defeat apparent in his slumped shoulders, a look Harry never thought he’d see Tom wearing.

They sit in silence for a long time after that.

At some point, an undetermined amount of time later, the bell above the door rings as someone steps into the cafe. Harry glances up from the origami boat he’d been making out of one of the napkins on the table, something one of his old primary school teachers had taught him once that he’d never forgotten, and sees the new comer is dressed head to toe in a dark, sweeping robe, the hood pulled down low obscuring their face.

It immediately sends his senses pinging off in high alert, so he gives Tom a quick kick under the table. The boy, who had been playing solitaire with a battered deck of cards he’d pilfered from the cafe's lone bookshelf, kicked Harry back reflexively before looking up in annoyance.

Harry darts his eyes quickly to the man, now standing as if studying the chalkboard menu, then looks pointedly back at Tom. Thankfully, he seems to get the message. Laying down his cards, Tom slips his wand, Harry’s old holly one, out of his sleeve to hold it out of sight under the table, directed at the man's back.

Whatever spell he does makes Tom suck in a quick breath.

“They’re magic.” He murmurs.

“Shit.” Harry tries to squash his fringe down over his stupid scar. The man, holding a wrapped up chocolate muffin, of all things, has started walking their way. “Shitshitshit!”

They come to a stop in front of their table, apparently accessing the cards laid out and the sad little row of napkin boats.

Then, they speak, and Harry has never relaxed so quickly in his life.

“Language, Potter. Move over.” Snape’s voice bleeds sourly from the cover of the hood, as dour and unimpressed as ever.

He never thought he’d be so glad to hear his most hated Professors’ voice, but some of the doom and gloom he’d been feeling falls away as Harry hastily shoves himself along the booth seat until he’s pressed flush against the wall. Though he usually resented being told what to do, especially by Snape of all people, he would gladly welcome whatever guidance he could get now.

Snape sits down and pushes his hood back, shaking his long hair out of his face. Then he waves his wand around in a wavey formation, unbothered by the few muggles still sitting around the cafe.

“And just why is it that you have not erected a privacy ward, or disguised yourselves with notice-me-nots?” the man asks, giving Tom especially a sharp, annoyed look. The boy colours slightly, only obvious because he’s already so pale, and he glares at Snape from across this table.

“What do you want?”

“I’ve come to fulfil Dumbledore’s last wish, which is making sure you two imbeciles are where you’re meant to be. Which isn’t here, if you couldn’t already guess, playing solitaire and moping in full view of any Death Eaters that should happen to pass by.”

“Like you, you mean?” Tom jabs snidely, but Harry’s brief joy has burst and deflated after hearing Snape say the Headmasters name. He looks down at his hands in shame, picking the already abused skin around his nails until it begins to bleed.

“Professor, I’m so sorry, I tried to help him but I… Dum-” Harry can’t even say his name, can’t bear to. “He’s gone. He’s dead…”

Snape looks at Harry with eyes so dark it’s hard to discern where the colour ends and the pupil begins, then simply unwraps his muffin to take a bite, chewing slowly. When he’s finished his mouthful, he speaks again, the usual hatred for Harry only a back note in his tone.

“I know, Potter. The Headmaster and I had previously discussed matters before you departed. He told me he was unlikely to return, and what I was to do if he should not. That is why I’m here.”

Harry is confused, his mouth tugging down at the corners. “He knew? But he said to me he had the whole summer before… I mean, I knew he was hurt, but I thought he had longer.”

“He lied, Potter. Dumbledore was surviving on fumes as it was. There was no way he was living until the end of the summer, not after that curse. It was a miracle he lived as many days as he did.” Snape says, factual but not uncaring.

He directs his venomous glare at Tom as he speaks, and now that Harry is looking for it, he can see the tightness lingering in his Professor's face, a redness to the corners of his eyes the only evidence of his own pain. Snape is grieving too, only he had known what was going to happen all along, and had a little longer to try and cope with it.

It seems only Harry hadn’t known what was going on, and wasn’t that the usual way? He couldn’t help but feel a little resentful over being left in the dark, again.

“So, what was the wish? Where are we ‘meant to be’?” Asks Tom, when neither Snape nor Harry speak for a while, the former eating his muffin and Harry lost to the turmoil of his thoughts.

“Come with me,” Snape replies, throwing his rubbish down and getting to his feet with speed. Harry and Tom scramble to do the same, following behind as the man leaves the cafe and turns off to the left sharply, his strides long and unfaltering.

He leads the way through London once more, turning right and left every so often, stopping to cross the roads at the traffic lights like a sensible person should. Tom and Harry stay quiet, mostly focused on not losing the darkly dressed man to the cover of night and the shadowed alleys, walking without pause for what feels like a very long time. Harry’s feet are starting to ache a little and the skin of his exposed arms feels completely numb from the cold, as he’s still only in his threadbare t-shirt.

He rubs over them with his palms, crossing them tightly together to try and preserve what heat he can, and is so distracted by his continued shivering that when they finally do stop, it takes him a moment to recognise what’s in front of him.

When he does, he spins around on his heel to glare at Snape, snapping in refusal.

“No! No way, I am not going in there!”

A row of tall, grey houses loom ominously over the three of them. Even though number twelve has not yet been revealed, Harry is already starting to feel like a rabid animal, wild and feral. He can’t go in there, not now, not so soon after Sirius, and now Dumbledore too-! No, no, Harry won’t, he can’t!

“You will, Potter.” Snape says with finality, then turns to Tom, “Harry Potter’s house is number twelve, Grimmauld Place, London.”

Harry startles out of his spiralling to look confusedly at Snape.

“Wait, that’s not right-” Before he can finish though, the buildings begin to rumble and move in front of them, slowly splitting apart to make way for the one hiding behind. When it’s settled into place, the number on the door glinting at him like a bad omen, Snape grips Harry by the back of his shirt and starts to drag him in, Tom following behind.

He tries to escape, hissing and spitting like a cat the whole way, but Snape gets him through the door and slams it shut behind them, locking them in to complete darkness and quiet.

At least until Harry gets his lungs working again.

“I’m not staying here!” He growls up at Snape, who’s lit the end of his wand so they can see in front of them. The entry hallway leads off deeper into the house, which gives off the same energy as a horrible, empty tomb, everything so silent and still. The air is stagnant, as damp and musty smelling as it had always been, only made worse for how it had sat empty the last few weeks and its complete lack of sunlight.

Snape doesn’t even bother to reply, pushing past Harry and Tom to go off into the depths, lighting the lamps as he goes. Tom shoots a sideways look at him, before following along, inspecting the peeling walls and macabre decor intriguingly. Harry briefly looks back at the front door behind him, contemplating escaping - but where else would he go?

So, with trepidation, he goes after the other two, keeping his eyes glued to the thin, worn carpet under his feet and steadfastly refusing to think about anything to do with this house or who used to live here.

Used to.

He grinds his teeth. Well that didn’t last long, Harry thinks to himself dourly. He turns at the end of the hallway to go into the dining room, opposite the stairs leading up into complete pitch blackness. His mood lightens a little though, when he sees the long wooden table, or rather, what is resting upon it. His trunk, all of his school things from the Dursleys, even his broom! And, best of all-

“Hedwig!” Harry calls out, delighted, and the beautiful white owl flies over from where she’d been perched on the back of a chair to land on Harry’s shoulder, trilling in his ear and snapping at his hair chidefully. “What are you doing here?”

“I collected your things on Dumbledore’s request earlier this morning, when your relatives had left for the day.”

“Oh.” Harry isn’t sure how he feels about Snape visiting Privet Drive, even if he’d snuck in when his Aunt and Uncle weren’t home. “Um, thank you, sir.” He makes sure to add quickly, not wanting to be seen as ungrateful.

Snape sits down at the table, folding his hands together and staring pointedly at Harry, who hastens to sit down as well, feeling as if he’s late for detention. Hedwig glides over to perch on the chair next to him and Tom is otherwise busy moseying about the room, inspecting the contents of an old dresser in the corner.

“You’ll notice I did not reveal the house the same way it has been previously,” The potions professor starts, and Harry nods. When he had been brought here for the first time last summer, he’d been handed a piece of paper that said number twelve was the headquarters for the Order of the Phoenix. Snape had said ‘Harry Potter’s house’, which made no sense, as it wasn’t. It was Sirius’, much as the man had hated it.

Snape continues, reaching into his robes for a roll of papers, tied together with silky ribbon. “I hoped Dumbledore would be the one to inform you of this, but it seems the task has fallen to me.” He sounded bitter, even more so than he usually was. Harry watches with tense shoulders, aware that Tom has come to stand just behind him to observe as well. Snape sets the papers down, sliding them over to rest in front of Harry.

“Before his arrest, Sirius Black,” Harry jolts physically at the name said aloud, especially the way it sounds coming from Snape, who sneers it out like it’s no better than mud, “named you, Harry James Potter, as the sole heir of the Black family. He had no children of his own, and his petty, childish personality thought it was awfully funny to stop the heir title from going to another branch of the Black family, namely to his cousin Narcissa Malfoy, and her children. That will was filed just after your birth, at the same time as he was named Godfather to you in your parent’s wills, and it sat untouched throughout his time in Azkaban. With his death, the will came into effect, meaning that you are now Heir to the most Noble and Ancient House of Black, and when you come of age, you will then be Lord.”

Behind him Tom lets out a low whistle. “Oh, a Lord? I didn’t know I was keeping such prestigious company.” He titters. Harry looks at him, then back at Snape, bewildered.

“What?” Is all he can think to blurt in response, feeling dense and lost. He’d been named Heir? What in the world did that mean?

“You own this house, Potter, as well as any other vacant house belonging to the Black Family. You have ownership of the vaults, and to an extent, hold some manner of power over all the remaining branches as the sole heir and future Lord.” Snape explains.

“But I don’t understand.” Harry insists, his leg beginning to bounce under the table. “Why is this the first I’m hearing about it?”

Surely, this would have been brought up by someone, anyone, at some point? Why would no one have ever explained to Harry that one day, if he was lucky enough to live that long, he’d actually belong somewhere, that he would finally have a place in a family for the first time ever?

…Not that it even mattered now. What good was heirship, houses and vaults, if the one person Harry wanted to be there with him for it was gone?

“It’s all in there,” Said Snape, pointing at the papers, “Read them another time, where I don’t have to bear witness to it. I only bring this up because it means you legally own Grimmauld Place. With Dumbledore’s death, the Fidelius shielding this place has passed down to everyone else who already knows the location, meaning everyone in the Order is now a secret keeper. Dumbledore’s suggestion was that as soon as I brought you here, I should break and then recast the spell to make you the new secret keeper and in turn, make this place secure enough to house you for whatever it is you’re doing...”

Snape’s lips twist up at the end of his sentence, and Harry suddenly realises that the potions master doesn’t know what Harry and Tom are doing, or what their mission is. While Dumbledore had apparently confided and trusted Snape with a lot, the topic of the Horcruxes was apparently not one of them. When Harry makes no move to fill the obvious opening Snape has left, expecting a response, the man stands from his chair to tower over Harry, glaring down his nose at him.

He speaks softly, threateningly. “I do not know what it is that is so important it requires only you to do it, but I do know this; you are going to need a great deal more knowledge than you currently possess if you want even a slither of a chance of surviving, especially once the Dark Lord knows of the Headmasters death. He will hunt you down and no amount of wards or spells will keep him from you.”

Harry rolls his jaw, biting on his tongue. He already felt entirely lost in this, knew that he wasn’t up to the task, not truly. But in the face of Snape’s doubt, Harry would always bluff his way out, hating the idea of him seeing just how correct the assessment was.

“Thank you for your concern, Professor,” He says politely, digging his nails sharply into the meat of his palms. “But Dumbledore gave this task to me, and I’m going to do it. Alone.”

Behind him, Tom clears his throat loudly.

“With Tom,” Harry amends.

Snape doesn’t appear mollified. He looks at the both of them furiously before opening his robes again, bringing out and tossing down two sealed letters.

“Your trace was broken prematurely this morning, right under the noses of the Ministry. I suggest you get studying, now that you have the freedom to do so. Now come with me. I want to get the new Fidelius in place so I can leave.” Snape moves out of the room silently, leaving a thunderstruck Harry behind sitting at the table.

What did he mean, the trace was broken this morning? His hand trembles as he slips it into the waistband of his jeans, where Dumbledore’s wand had been nestled the entire night, unusable even in the most needed moments. Or so he’d thought.

Holding it in his hand, and feeling awful for even still having it in the first place, Harry whispers the first spell that comes to mind.

“Lumos.”

The long, greyish wand lights up a brilliant white, bright and strong. Harry’s tender, bruised heart shrivels up for good.

He’d been able to use magic this whole day, the entire time they were in the cave… If Harry had known that, maybe he could’ve done something, summoned Dumbledore to him before Tom apparated them away…

But Dumbledore knew Harry could’ve helped, and decided not to tell him. Because he knew he was going to die, and if Harry had known that too, he wouldn’t have let that happen.

“Nox.” Harry says dully. The light goes out.

He gets to his feet to follow after Snape, going to leave the room just as Hedwig coos mournfully at him from her chair, his loyal friend always having been able to sense when Harry was at his lowest, and wanting to comfort him. Harry allows himself one quick sweep of his fingers down her soft feathers before walking away, leaving her and Tom behind.

Chapter Text

Most of the specifics of breaking and then recasting the Fidelius Charm admittedly goes right over Harry’s head, which is so full of buzzing, rattling white noise, that it’s a miracle he even hears enough of Snape’s voice to comply. Pure, mind-numbing exhaustion is really starting to set in now, creeping in to weigh at his shoulders, his back, and the same headache from before has grown steadily into migraine territory. The morning exploring Hogwarts with Tom feels light years away, a whole eternity expanding between the Harry of now and the Harry of then. So he does as Snape tells him without any fuss, repeating the incantations in a droning, flat voice, with each blink of his sore, tired eyes dragging out longer and longer.

He’s not sure how long the process takes exactly, standing huddled tightly in the tiny room that Harry had never noticed before during his previous visits, tucked away behind the kitchen. It’s small and dusty and home to only one thing; the main ward stone of the house, or the heart of it, he supposes. It was this that kept Grimmauld safe and sheltered from the outside world, as well as supplying the house with that special sort of sentient magic that only very old wizarding properties held. Snape has Harry lay his palm over it as he swishes his wand in the air, drawing strange symbols that mean nothing to his fatigued brain, though he can distantly appreciate that it feels warm and welcoming to his touch at least, soothing to his still frigid skin.

Then, after a while, Snape comes to a stop and allows his wand to fall, although the magic hovers in the air as if awaiting more instruction.

“The last step will need to be performed outside, on the edge of the properties boundary lines. Get Riddle, then meet me on the front steps,” The man orders, before leaving the room without a backwards glance, just as he had done earlier.

With a sigh coming from what feels like the very soles of his feet, Harry leaves the small room with the magic still dancing in the air, closing the door gently behind him. He shuffles up the stairs out of the kitchen, yawning so widely that his jaw aches under the force of it. He’s desperate for a bed, for a chance to finally stop, but he knows it’s a long way off yet. Although, whenever he does get that chance, the idea of him getting anything even close to resembling sleep tonight is laughable, verging into hysterical.

Sleep? After everything that's happened, everything he’s learnt? An extremely unlikely outcome.

Harry reaches the hall and pops his head back into the dining room, to see if Tom has stayed where he was left. Somewhat surprisingly, he has. Unsurprisingly however, he’s chosen to root through Harry’s school trunk, and has laid out all of his belongings on the wooden table to inspect with avid interest. Hedwig is nowhere to be seen.

“Where’s my owl?” Harry asks. Honestly, there’s no energy left within him to protest against Tom’s nosey habits right now, no fuel to fan the flames of his annoyance over the breach of his privacy. But if the boy has done something to Hedwig… Harry is sure he could change up his sleepy attitude - and fast.

Tom only smiles, falsely innocent, and steps away from Harry’s trunk.

“She started hooting madly at me, so I let her out of the window. Gorgeous thing, isn’t she? Snappy too - bit like you,” He waggles his fingers, and Harry can now see the familiar red marks indicating various owl bites.

He musters up a small, tired grin, proud of Hedwig.

“Yeah, she is. Anyway, Snape needs us outside for the last bit of the spell so, come on.”

The street outside is completely still with the height of the witching hour, the pressing pitch of night hanging heavy overhead. Snape almost blends right into it, if it were not for the pale skin of his face catching alight in the orangery glow of the street lamps. He is standing just at the bottom of the steps, wand drawn and tapping his foot with impatience.

“In front of me, Potter. Riddle, to the left of him.”

They position themselves as requested.

“Once the spell is complete, only you will know Grimmauld place’s exact location. The memory of the house and what went on within it will remain in the minds of the Order, but they will not be able to remember where the house is, myself included. My mission from Dumbledore remains, so this is where we part ways, Potter. Whatever task the Headmaster bestowed upon you to do…” Snape trails off for a long moment, studying Harry like he never had before, as if he was truly looking at him for the first time, and not just the shadow of his father. His dark eyes pierce Harry’s own for what feels like forever, but must only actually be a few seconds, before darting away again.

The potions master raises his wand and offers one last parting declaration.

“I trust you will get it done. Good luck.”

With that, he begins to finalise the Fidelius over Grimmauld, a determined set to his sharp face as he chants, and Harry feels his magic moving through him as it settles, marking him as the secret keeper. As soon as it’s done, Harry lets his eyes fall shut for the space of a breath to adjust to the feeling, and by the time he opens them again, Snape has vanished.

Tom stands at his left still, looking befuddled with a deep crease in place on his forehead. Harry looks around at the deserted street before reaching out, touching his arm to get the boy's attention.

“Harry?” Tom questions.

Leaning close, Harry barely lets his voice go above a whisper as he speaks into Tom’s ear, switching to Parseltongue as well, just in case.

“Harry Potter lives at Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, London.” He reveals, just as Snape had done.

Though to him the front of the house had not moved, Tom must be seeing it become revealed again as he lets out a soft ‘oh!’ noise, looking up in fascination. Harry leads the way back in through the front door, looking out once more to sweep his gaze up and down the road before closing it firmly, sealing him and Tom inside, safely out of reach.

He stands with his hand resting against the wood, lingering there as the colossal weight of what’s yet to come settles into his bones. Then, from somewhere within the house, ringing from the depths of the upper floors, a clock announces the hour. The noise of it echoes down the empty halls, through the dusty rooms, and something about it sets Harry on edge. He turns to look apprehensively towards where he knows Sirirus’ mother’s portrait to be, wondering why she’s being so quiet when she usually loves to scream at any and every noise, but there’s nothing coming from behind her curtains, not even a peep. Perhaps Snape messed with it when he brought Harry’s things here earlier…

With that thought, Harry shuffles past Tom to go into the dining room again, this time towards his trunk. He can’t be bothered to put all his things back from where Tom had got them out, so he just riffles through his piles of clothes until he comes across his favourite soft shirt, oversized from belonging to Dudley previously, as well as some lounge trousers and one of Mrs Weasley’s famous knit jumpers. Grimmauld place had always been a little drafty and Harry was still frozen from only wearing a t-shirt all day, so any warmth he can get is very much needed, as well as the comfort factor it brings to his weary heart.

What he wouldn’t give for a hug from her right now, he thinks miserably to himself, shoving his things back into an untidy pile on the table. A hug from any of the Weasley’s would do really, Fred or George, Ron or Ginny, he wasn’t too fussed. Though, when Harry thinks of hugging Ginny.. Maybe not. With warm cheeks, he bundles his clothes under his arm, grabs the letters and papers still sitting on the table from earlier, then goes to leave.

Tom, who had been watching Harry with his usual sharp attention from the doorway, straightens out of his leaning stance.

“What about me?” He asks. Harry gives him a once over, taking in the buttoned shirt and formal slacks, and realises they won’t be very comfortable for sleeping in.

So, with another yawn, he gestures back to his trunk.

“Help yourself. That is, if you can cope with my ‘common’ clothing.”

Even if he did find them common, Tom would just have to get used to it, as they’d likely need to share Harry’s already minimal amount of clothing for the next few days, unless they could scrounge something from one of the bedrooms upstairs. Tom was taller than Harry, so any trousers he borrowed would show his ankles off and it wasn’t like he was about to lend his jumper collection over - no way, so Harry would just have to hope there was still something knocking about that wasn’t moth bitten or out dated as hell. Although thinking about it, would something that’s super old fashioned to Harry actually look modern to Tom, seeing as he was from the forties?

Harry’s head hurts just thinking about it. He waits for the boy to make his pick, somehow unearthing the only matching set of pyjamas he’d ever owned, a stripey set that he didn’t realise was still in there. He looks at them in Tom’s hold a little doubtfully, as he’s pretty sure the last time he wore them was in second year.

Tom sees him looking and says, “I’m a dab hand at tailoring charms.”

“Right. Well, come on then.”

With Dumbledore’s wand in hand, and still sour about the fact he can use it, Harry leads the way up the stairs, lighting the lamps to guide their way. There’s a fine layer of dust that’s settled on the floor, flying up to float in the air when their footsteps disturb it. Kreacher clearly hadn’t been keeping on top of the housework, if he was even here at all. Harry hopes he isn’t. He’s not sure what he’ll do when he comes face to face with the elf again, knowing he’d lied and said Sirius wasn’t home that night of the Ministry, which had set off the entire tragic chain of events.

Harry would just give the house a bit of a once over himself, if need be. He’d dealt with more than a bit of dust and stale air, that was for sure. They go up the stairs to the first floor and then up again, stopping on the landing of the second. On the right is the door leading to the room where he and Ron had slept last summer, which looked over the tiny, overgrown back garden attached to the house. Other than what he deemed ‘his’ bedroom, this floor was also home to a ‘treasury’, which was just a small room cramped with overly large wooden cabinets full of dusty old trophies and heirlooms, a Billiards room - or at least a wizarding adjacent version, with a piano, wizarding chess tables and a miniature charmed quidditch arena, and finally another room that was turned into a bedroom for the Twins when they were here. Harry has no idea what it was used for before that, but he presumes it’s still set up that way and he turns to Tom on the landing to ask which he’d prefer.

“You can stay in this room with me,” He offers, not really knowing why, as the only thing he wants besides some sleep is to be alone, “Or there’s another bedroom through there which should be usable.”

Harry points over to where he means, realising ‘should’ is really the key word there; knowing Fred and George, they could have left any manner of one of their products lying around, waiting for its next unlucky victim to stumble across it. Harry almost wishes they have, just so he can have a laugh when Mr oh-so-nosey Tom finds it and tries it. Thankfully, Tom picks the latter choice, and they bid each other mumbled goodnights before slipping away into their chosen rooms.

Like everything else in the house, his room is stiflingly dark and still, and of course covered in dust. He lights only the lamp that sits on the table between the two twin beds, which is bright enough to see what he’s doing while not being too overbearing, then picks up the covers on his bed to wave as much of the dust off as he can, coughing a bit as it flies up everywhere. Suitably cleared off, Harry then finally removes the clothes he’d had on for far too long, throwing them on the floor to be dealt with another time and quickly getting into his pyjamas.

Dumbledore’s wand and the letters from Snape get placed onto the table with care, along with his glasses that he takes off before laying down. The covers are icy cold, nipping at the bare skin of his cheeks and neck and sending him into shivers once more.

He could throw a warming charm over the bed and himself, but Harry just can’t muster the effort. In the blurry glow of the lamp light, Harry takes in the empty bed across from him with a painful pang, wishing hopelessly for Ron to come blundering in from the bathroom, talking around a yawn about Quidditch while he clambered into bed, just as he had last summer.

But there’s no Ron here to walk into the room, no other Weasley or Hermione toddling about the house to lull him off to sleep.

There’s no Sirius. No Dumbledore.

There’s only Harry, and the teenage version of Voldemort sleeping in the room across the hall.

He rolls over in his cold bed and shuts his eyes, begging for sleep to take him swiftly.

Harry is somewhat surprised to open his eyes again after what feels like only seconds later, but judging by the brightness in the room and the dry taste in his mouth, must have been hours. He blinks heavily with foggy eyes, smacking his lips together and swallowing, trying to get some moisture back to his throat.

He’d slept, and pretty well at that - with no nightmares or even regular dreams to speak of. His exhaustion must have overpowered the usual insomnia he suffered with, and for that, Harry is beyond grateful. He sits up against his headboard with a yawn, stretching his arms up and his legs out with satisfaction.

The July sun is beaming into the room, painting the old, grey patterned wallpaper in cheerful, glowing strokes, completely at odds with the reality of what the day brings.

No amount of summer sun will change the facts; that Harry is alone, that he has an impossible mission ahead of him with no idea where to start, and that Dumbledore is dead.

Harry stares at his covered lap, sitting numb and motionless until a tapping noise interrupts his bleak mood. He looks up, squinting towards the window.

“Oh!” He breathes, somehow having forgotten. “Hedwig!”

Sliding his glasses on, Harry gets out of bed and rushes over to the window where Hedwig is waiting to be let in, her yellow eyes flinty with annoyance. She must have been waiting a while. What time even is it, Harry wonders.

He opens the window wide enough for her to fly in, then leaves it open for good measure, hoping the fresh air will help some of the dust and musty smell dissipate. She flies over to the top of the wardrobe and clicks her beak at him, complaining.

“I know, I know. Sorry for taking so long to let you in.”

She watches him knowingly, always so perceptive to him and his moods. Harry had sometimes worried that she was actually an Animagus trapped in her animal form, just because of how intelligent she was, always seeming to listen to him when he spoke to her, knowing when he needed a sharp nip versus a soft coo. He’d told Tom that Hargrid was his first friend, but really, that honour lay with Hedwig. He tries to smile up at her but it falters and falls soon after.

“I’m fine,” He assures her, sighing when her eyes glint as she blinks, loud with her judgement.

Harry amends, “I will be fine. I don’t have time not to be.”

And isn’t that the truth.

Seeing as he didn’t bring his trunk up, and that he straight up refuses to wear the same clothes as the day before, Harry goes out the door still in his pyjamas and knitted jumper, making sure to grab Dumbledore’s wand on the way.

Tom’s door across the landing is still closed. When Harry stops to listen for a second, he can’t hear any movement from within, but the boy could have put up a ward for all he knows, so he moves to go down the stairs without bothering to knock. After a quick stop to the toilet on the first floor, Harry carries on down to the dining room, where his trunk and things are still strewn about.

Now that some of the rush and gloom has faded off, Harry is beyond anxious to go over his things and make sure Snape got everything, to make sure Tom hadn’t pilfered anything when he’d been going through it. He makes an effort to fold his clothes up neatly, his few shirts and jeans, his uniform and robes. Socks and underwear just get shoved on top, most of them mismatched from giving them to Dobby or just plain getting lost, as socks usually tend to do.

His school books are all here, along with the usual supplies of parchment and ink bottles, quills both broken and intact. Really, his trunk is a bit of a disaster. There’s chocolate frog cards here and there, forgotten homework assignments and far too many pages of random doodles he always ends up doing in History of Magic, that really should be thrown away. So he starts making a throw away pile, categorising his things as he goes. Quidditch gear, check, crumpled up potions essay with Snapes sweeping handwriting in an angry red, rubbish pile. A Chudley Cannons scarf from Ron gets folded up and put to the side, as well as one of Hermione’s hand made lumpy hats that he can’t bear throwing away, even if he’d likely never wear it.

An empty tin of leftover crumbs… Harry is a little ashamed of that one. How long has that been in here? He throws it away quickly. Eventually, his trunk is empty and the dining table is even more covered in stuff, but at least it’s more orderly.

There’s only one problem.

His Invisibility cloak, the shard of mirror Sirius had given him that Harry had foolishly forgotten about in his time of need, the Marauders Map and the photo album of his parents are missing.

And he knows exactly where they are. Still hidden away under the floorboards in his room at Privet Drive, where he stowed his most precious items at the start of every summer, in case his Aunt and Uncle decided to lock up all of his things, like they sometimes did. Nobody knew about the hiding place, which is why Snape will have overlooked them.

Harry sinks down onto a chair and lets his head fall into his palms, groaning low with frustration. Just another bump in the road, another hurdle in their process. Harry needed those things though, hated the thought of them sitting in that house so far away from him. But it meant going back there, going out into the world when it was about to go up in metaphorical and probably very literal flames.

They’d have to go soon and Harry would need Tom to take them, seeing as he couldn't apparate. Just another thing to add to his never ending list; learn to apparate, somehow. When Snape had told Harry he’d need ‘considerably more knowledge than he currently possesses’, it had chafed at him, making him flare up in defence. But it was true, horrifically, undeniably true. Harry knew nothing, he only had five years of education under his belt, and he’d never been the best of students, not like Hermione.

From above his head, Harry hears the floorboards creak as Tom finally emerges, and not too long after, the sound of the shower sputtering to life from the bathroom on the first floor. He shakes himself out of his depressed slump and gathers up all of his things to take up to his room, hovering the trunk along in front of him rather than dragging it up each flight of stairs - there are some silver linings to being free to use magic, after all.

He puts his things away quietly, conscious of the fact that Hedwig is still asleep on top of the wardrobe. With that done, and considering he has to wait for Tom to be done showering, Harry then goes over to his nightstand where the letters from Snape are still sitting waiting for him, deciding to get them out of the way now.

The first one is sealed with a red coloured stamp that he unfortunately recognises straight away, the bold strokes of the ‘M’ indicating it as a Ministry of Magic letter. Harry slides his thumb under the seal nervously and slips the parchment within out, unfolding it in his lap to begin reading. Across the top, written in large bold writing, the letter is titled;

Ordinary Wizarding Level Results

Harry gapes. His exam results? Already?! He hadn’t expected them until the end of the summer at least!

He reads ahead, breath held in his throat. Even though he won’t be returning to Hogwarts to continue his lessons, he still wants to know how he's done.

Harry James Potter has achieved:

Astronomy: A
Care of Magical Creatures: E
Charms: E
Defence Against the Dark Arts: O
Divination: P
Herbology: E
History of Magic: D
Potions: E
Transfiguration: E

Harry reads the grades over several times, a spark of pride lighting in his chest. He’d done pretty well, considering what a colossal mess last year had been, what with Umbridge and the visions. He’d done better than he’d thought in Herbology and Transfiguration, not to mention Potions! He wished Snape was still here so he could rub it in his face - real, physical proof that Harry was good at Potions! The fail in Divination and History of Magic isn’t so surprising, and the bold ‘O’ next to Defence is the highlight of the page.

He laughs a little, wishing he had someone with him to share his joy with. As if summoned, there’s a knock on the door, which then opens to show Tom’s head of perfectly styled waves.

“Oh, you are awake, I thought I heard you moving about.” The boy says, inviting himself in. Harry stands up to bound over excitedly, waving his letter all the while.

“Look! Snape brought my exam results early!”

Tom takes the letter and straightens it out, the page creased from Harry’s excitement. His dark eyes dart about the page as he takes in the results, smiling pleasantly once he’s finished.

“Congratulations, Harry.” He says, surprisingly warm. Harry feels his cheeks flood with heat, suddenly bashful. Tom continues, “An impressive turnout.”

Harry takes the offered letter back, cradling it with care. “Thank you,” He murmurs in response. Tom, he knows, probably was more on par with Hermione in school and likely got complete Outstandings, but the praise still felt nice, a brief slant of happiness in the dark reality they’re in.

They stand looking at each other for a moment before Tom clears his throat.

“I came in to see about borrowing a different shirt, if you don’t mind. My trousers are fine, but my shirt was already worn down fifty years ago, so I don’t think it’ll take another cleaning charm without falling apart.”

Harry now realises the boy had walked in only half dressed, his top half still clad in the striped pyjama top he’d borrowed, albeit charmed to actually fit him. It’s a strange sight, but Harry had anticipated this and already set some of his things aside earlier.

“I don’t have much,” He warns, going over to the chest of drawers to the pile he’d left on top. “Especially if you’re after shirts, of all things. But these are the clothes I won’t miss, if you want to take your expertise in tailoring to them.”

He hands them over and watches as Tom sorts through them, pursing his lips at some and scoffing at others. Harry crosses his arms, unimpressed.

“So sorry my fashion offends you,” He drawls sarcastically. Tom has seemingly landed on the one item he likes, the black shirt that had gone with Harry’s dress robes for the yule ball in Fourth year.

“Not to worry, Harry. Not everyone is perfect,” Tom practically sings, the insinuation that he is excluded from that claim loud and clear. Before Harry can puff up about it though, the boy starts to unbutton his pyjama shirt and lets it fall onto Harry’s bed, standing bare front he waist up as he waves Harry’s Holly wand over the black shirt to enlarge it.

Harry’s eyes darted over the boy's chest, ivory strokes of skin suddenly everywhere he looked. He just about registers the sight of pale nipples and the way his ribs protrude out a little with his slimness before Harry looks hastily up to the ceiling instead, burning with embarrassment. If Tom notices, he makes no sign of it, throwing the newly changed shirt over his shoulders and slipping his arms through, long, thin fingers expertly doing the buttons up. He takes care to tuck the shirt in properly with neat sharp movements, before standing straight in front of Harry as if to say ‘tadah!’.

The sight of him, dark slacks and shirt against pale skin, with that equally dark hair and gaze.. Harry’s throat goes dry.

“Well, how do I look?” Tom prods, a smugness to his smile like he knows exactly what Harry is thinking about.

Without bothering to reply, in case all that comes out is a panicked high pitched squeak, Harry just nods his head frantically and then, even worse, gives a thumbs up. Tom laughs, a deep, warm noise, that doesn’t help Harry’s thundering heart one bit.

What in the blazes is happening here?

“Glad you approve. Now, what are we doing today? Tackling the fake Locket or drowning in your sorrows?”

Although Tom asks it sarcastically, more as a pointed reminder of their Horcrux problem than an actual question, Harry suddenly sombers as he remembers his earlier spiral downstairs.

“Actually, a little of the second.”

At the raised brow he gets, Harry explains that they’ll need to return to Little Whinging to collect his things, trying to cite the importance of what they are without giving them away. He doesn’t really want Tom to know about the cloak for some reason, despite the fact they may need to use it together at some point, and he knows the boy would roll his eyes at Harry’s sentimentality over his photo album. So, when Tom voices his doubts, Harry can only repeat himself, pleading a little.

“We’ll go and wait for them to leave for the day and be in and out again before you know it. Please, Tom. This is really important.” To me, he doesn’t add, but the point is made clear anyway. Tom studies him with a blank face and for a moment Harry thinks he’ll be rejected anyway.

Then, the boy sighs and closes his eyes as if terribly burdened. “Fine. In and out?” He checks again.

Gratefully, Harry nods and reassures. “In and out!”

He wastes no time rushing off to take a speedy shower of his own, washing himself with rough, quick movements. Once he’s dry and dressed, once more in a variation of jeans and a t-shirt, he takes the stairs two at a time, only slowing to tread lightly when he comes up next to the still mysteriously quiet portrait hidden behind ratty curtains.

Tom is just coming out of the room at the side of the entrance hallway, the one Harry knows has the Black family tapestry spread out over the walls, forking off in different directions to connect all the names and faces together. The boy looks pensive, a troubled tick to his brow.

“Alright?” Harry asks, worried Tom has changed his mind about going.

“Fine. Are you ready to go?” Tom replied shortly, brushing past the moment as his face flattened out again.

Studying him, Harry considers pushing the issue. But it’s not really the right time, so he drops it and nods his head to Tom’s question, tapping his hip to feel for the wand tucked away safely there.

“I’ll hide us under disillusionment charms, but keep your wand ready now that you know you can use it,” Tom bosses, taking Harry’s old wand from out of his shirt sleeve. He taps it none too gently over the top of his head which makes him shiver at the strange, slimy feeling of the magic settling in place. Tom gives him a quick once over, nods, then turns his wand on himself to repeat the process.

“We’re going in blindly as it is, since we have no idea if Voldemort knows anything yet. We’ll go in, get your things, then leave quickly. No detours.”

Harry takes a deep, tense breath and nods his head in agreement.

“No detours, got it.” They go out the front door cautiously, stopping on the top step to check three times over for any signs of being watched or listened to. When they all come back clear, Tom holds his arm out in invitation for Harry to grab tightly. As soon as he does, the two of them are cracking away from the top step in an instant.

Chapter Text

Little Whinging greets them with a dense, heavy rain, pouring down from the solid slab of grey cloud cover above to soak them immediately as they land in place. Tom throws up hasty water repelling charms over their heads to shelter them from further deluge, but the chill has already set in regardless, sending them into shivers under their minimal layers. Neither of them had bothered with coats or jackets, and they paid for it now with goosebumpy arms and chattering teeth.

But they had a task to do and standing here in the rain didn’t get it done any faster, so Tom waved his arm for Harry to lead the way, thankful at least that the dismal weather meant the streets were deserted as they passed through them on their way back to Privet Drive. It was strange to think that Tom had been here not even a week prior, waiting for his first glimpse of the famed Harry Potter, and how much had happened in the very short time since then. He’d gained his body back, killed Dumbledore - by some approximation, and now had a mission set out ahead of him to cement his new future in place.

Still, some of that optimism and drive had been squashed in the discovery of the fake Horcrux, and even more so after what Tom had found earlier today, before leaving the townhouse to come here.

Whilst Harry had been showering, he had allowed his curiosities to lead him into the only other room on the bottom floor, opposite the dining room from the previous night. At first he’d presumed it empty and uninteresting, only boasting a barren hearth that may have once been connected to the Floo system, but was now merely a fireplace waiting to be made up. So, Tom had turned to go and explore something else, before stopping short when he’d come face to face with the opposite wall.

A family tapestry, one belonging to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, spread out from one side of the wall to the other with huge rows of names and faces, all staring back at him with their haughty, empty eyes. Thankfully they had not been the moving, speaking kind, but even so their attention was unnerving. He’d stepped forward despite that uneasy feeling though, looking over the names and startling once he’d begun to recognise them.

Arcturus Black 1901 to 1991, Tom had recognised instantly, although he’d only met the man a handful of times. Orion and Lucretia’s father, a serious, slinky type of man who’d always looked at Tom with the distaste that Pureblood wizards never fully hid well, or more likely just never cared to hide. He’d detested how much Orion had looked up to Tom during their school years, how the other members of the Black family couldn’t help but flock to him. The date had surprised him a little, to know he’d survived for so long, likely outliving many in his family.

Tom was no fool. The fact that Harry was the sole heir to this entire tapestry, the fact that they could live in this ancestral house because it stood empty, surely did not mean that many of the Blacks were still around. But the truth had been a hard swallow. Tom had followed Arcturus’ line to Lucretia and Orion, and stopped when he saw both of them with death dates written under their portraits. Orion had gone in the late seventies, but Lucretia…Tom had only missed her by a handful of years. Though at first she had treated him indifferently, his friendly bond with Orion had eventually soothed her steely facade, enough for them to get along well and leave school together on friendly terms. Her name connected to Ignatius Prewett and ended, either because they did not have children or more likely, because the tapestry only listed children directly connected to the Black line.

His eyes darted back over to Orion’s name and the one connected to it, huffing with slight amusement. So he had ended up marrying Walburga after all. Orion had long lamented the betrothal, although not so much the fact that it was to his cousin, much to Tom’s dismay, who knew all too well what family inbreeding resulted in, but more so that it was to her. Walburga had been in the year above Tom, and thank God she was, as Tom did not think he could have put up with her for all of his classes on top of the time he had to spend in her presence in the Slytherin commons. She was headstrong in her beliefs and liked to let everyone know about it, and especially in his earlier years she had delighted in being most cruel to him, poking and prodding until he’d lash out in return.

She had outlived Orion by a handful of years, dying in the mid eighties. Her children linked below her and Orion, Sirius and Regulus, were also both dead. Sirius must have been Harry’s Godfather, the one who named him heir. The date below his charred portrait was this year.

That had set the theme for most every other familiar name he found on the tapestry. Alphard, Walburga’s brother and someone Tom had got along with well, had died sometime in the seventies and boasted a charred portrait similar to his nephew Sirius. Cedrella, Cygnus and Cassiopeia, all of whom he’d met only once and very briefly, were all dead. Cedrella was also charred, although the reasoning behind that likely lay with her marriage line, which connected to Septimus Weasley, a known blood traitor family - at least in the eyes of the ‘sacred’ families.

Dorea, who was finishing school as Tom had started, had died in the seventies as well, and her marriage line connected most interestingly to Charlus Potter. Tom had stepped away from the tapestry with a bitterness flooding his mouth, idly wondering if Harry had ever looked up here and seen the names, or if he already knew of the existing connection to the Black family before his godfather made him heir. A connection Tom had once longed for, to belong so surely to a name, at least until the reality of that had soured the idea for good.

Faced with all that death, of the people he knew and had shared lessons and meals with, knocked some of his surety down a peg. His lack of Horcrux once again became glaringly, all consumingly obvious, and in that room surrounded by the names of the dead with his head spinning, Tom had the mad idea to make a new one now, today, to slip away while Harry was distracted collecting his things and find the first Muggle he came across, to start the ritual. He’d looked down at the Ring on his finger, the one that had housed a Horcrux before and could easily house one again, and his eyes went dry as he’d stared manically down at it, thinking of the possibilities…

Only the sound of Harry’s footsteps as they’d come down the stairs, creaking and scuffling on the wood, had drawn Tom away from his clouded thoughts. In that room, watched on by the members of a nearly extinct bloodline much like his own, Tom had drawn himself up straight and inhaled deeply, calming himself down. Hastiness was how mistakes were made and right now, there was no room for them. Perhaps once he had reclaimed more of Vodlemort’s soul pieces, he’d then think about making another Horcrux of his own…

He shook the lingering thoughts of death away as they came to a stop over the road from number four at last, standing shoulder to shoulder in the continued rain to wait for the occupants of the house to leave. The downstairs window is aglow with light from within, and every so often Tom can just make out a figure inside casting shadows through that light as they move around.

After about ten minutes, Tom speaks up, loud enough to be heard over the downpour.

“Are you sure they’ll be going out today, in this weather?” He casts a disdainful look upwards.

“Positive,” Harry confirms, shifting on his feet. His hair is damp at the edges from being caught unaware earlier, and it curls up in little springs against his forehead and neck. “Uncle Vernon will be at work and my Aunt always takes Dudley with her on a Friday to go shopping, no matter what the weather’s like.”

Mentally, Tom gives them another five minutes before he’ll be taking charge, not at all inclined to stand about like this when he can just walk right in and Imperio them, Harry’s feelings be damned. Fortunately for them a black car turns down the street before their time is up, cutting through the rain with the sleek, smooth look all these modern vehicles possess, pulling to a stop outside number four and beeping its horn jarringly loud.

“Motorcars really have come a long way.” He can’t help but murmur, fascinated in spite of himself. He colours a little when Harry twists his neck to look at him, lips quirked up at the corners.

“Surprised you even know what a car is. Old man.”

Harry earns himself a shove for that and it soon turns into a scuffle of childish pushing and pulling, jabbing and pulling on each other as they squabble. It’s a good thing they’re still hidden behind Tom’s charmwork, or they’d be giving the driver a rather odd showing right about now.

“I’ll show you old man,” Tom warns, irked at how Harry’s little laugh shoots through him like a live wire. Before he can deliver on that promise though, the front door of number four finally cracks open and two very contrasting people rush out of it, tearing through the rain to jump in the car.

The woman is very thin, as if she’s been stretched out like taffy, with blonde hair mostly hidden by a plastic rain hood tied under her pointy chin. She wraps her raincoat tight around her and urges the other person along hastily. It must be the ‘Dudley’ that Harry spoke of, most likely her son going by the matching blonde hair, but that’s where their similarities end. Where the woman is thin, her son is far from it, thundering on large stocky legs to the car and sending the puddles splashing up madly. He’s round, pure and simple, everywhere from his face to his middle, and the car visibly dips when he gets into it.

Tom and Harry watch from their place on the path as the car pulls off, leaving the street empty once more. They give it another five minutes, just in case the car should circle back, before finally walking over the road and approaching the door.

Harry slips Dumbledore’s wand from his jeans, much to Tom’s annoyance as he’d told him to keep it on hand, and levels it at the door.

“Alohomora.”

It clicks and unlocks, and Harry opens it only wide enough for him and Tom to slip through before closing it again behind them. The boy lets out a breath, some of the tension in his frame receding.

“Okay. Stay here, I’ll be back in just a minute.”

Harry goes off up the stairs on quick feet, but even before he is fully out of sight, Tom is already moving off the welcome mat and walking further into the house, curious to see what Harry’s childhood home looked like. The boy had not mentioned his family once in the days they had been acquainted, and Tom is drawn to that fact like a shark to blood. Why had Harry made no remark about not returning to his home, his remaining relatives? Why had he not made a fuss about saying goodbye to them, but had half begged to come back here for his precious things?

Tom walks down the short hallway and stops in the open doorway to look in at the lounge, boggling at the huge grey box in one corner. Surely that wasn’t what televisions looked like these days? Why were they so huge? Tom had only seen a muggle television once, through the window of a house on his route to the grocers market, and that had been a quarter of the size of this monstrosity. He looks away from the apparent new age of technology, slightly unnerved, and turns his gaze on the rest of the room instead, taking in all the photos that stand pride and place on every spare wall space and surface.

Disappointingly, there is not a single photo of Harry. Not one. Instead, they’re all of the round, blonde son from before, following him from a baby, wailing and ugly, up through his childhood and teen years. Some of them feature the parents, the thin woman and an even larger man who must be the father, and all of them stare out at Tom with judgement and disdain.

He turns his back on the room, thoroughly uninterested and now even more intrigued by the mystery of Harry’s home, and comes face to face with a cupboard door, slanted to match the shape of the stairs. Not one to leave any stone unturned, he reaches out and twists the knob to have a look, absently noticing a slitted grate and a lock resting on the outside of the door.

Inside is a cramped storage space, housing a few wonky shelves of cleaning supplies, a whole lot of dust and cobwebs, and a ratty looking blanket discarded on the floor. There’s a piece of paper sticking out from underneath the blanket that crinkles as Tom accidentally steps on it, so he crouches and eases it out, smoothing his palm over the creases. In green crayon, wobbly handwriting spells out ‘Harry’s Room’, a few of the letters written backwards endearingly.

Harry’s room.. What was something like this doing in here? It was the sort of thing the other orphans had liked to do in Wool’s, creating personalised name signs for their bed areas just to give them a little sense of belonging, of individuality. Tom had never made one of course, although every so often one of the braver kids would come up to his attic door to scrawl all sorts of titles across the wood, like demonic, unholy or devil child. Tom’s eyes darted from the paper to the cupboard space again, taking in the threadbare blanket spread out across the floor for a second time. He turns on his heel and looks at the lock on the door, then peers into the lounge at the lack of photos once more, feeling his lips tugging down. Something about it struck him as odd, very odd indeed.

Harry chooses that moment to start coming back down the stairs, sending cascades of wood dust snowing down in the cupboard and covering the blanket. A spider falls from the slats as well, before climbing back up to its web. Tom can’t tear his gaze away from the tiny space.

“Okay, I’ve got them, we can go now. Tom? What are you…” Harry stands at the base of the stairs with a battered looking duffel bag tucked under his arm, staring down at where Tom is still crouched in front of the open cupboard. For some reason, Harry’s face goes pale and tight, and his throat bobs visibly as he gulps. Tom watches it all, several different thoughts falling into place in his mind.

He straightens out of his crouch, still cradling the paper gently in his hand. Harry’s green eyes, usually so clear and bright, go flat as he looks down at it. He starts forward, reaching out as if to grab it off Tom, who immediately moves it away.

They both pause, something tense settling into the air between them.

“Give that to me.” Harry orders, holding his hand out.

Tom steps back again defiantly. “No.”

“Tom,” Harry's voice goes hard. “Give it here. Now.”

Though his voice is firm, his eyes are flinty and panicked as they shift about, searching for any distraction or escape like a trapped animal. Harry is clearly unsettled, and Tom watches as his fingers squeeze tightly on the strap of the bag, turning white. When he doesn’t get a reply, Harry then tries to change tactics.

“Tom, you said in and out, remember? We don’t have time for this, put that down and let’s go.” He turns and starts off towards the front door, throwing the fraying bag strap over his shoulder and holding it protectively with the hand not reaching for the door.

“Did they shut you in this cupboard, Harry?” Tom asks, cutting right to the point. Harry was right, he hadn’t wanted to linger here, but he needed to know if what he thought was true.

For anyone else, the question might have seemed completely ridiculous, a huge assumption to make over a simple piece of paper in a cupboard. But combined with the lack of regard about essentially never seeing his family again due to their Horcrux mission, there being no photo’s of Harry in the heart of the house and above all, and his reaction to seeing Tom knelt before the open doorway, the pieces slot into place in Tom’s mind, confirming his suspicions.

Still facing away, the boy goes deathly still, staring straight ahead of him like he hadn't heard Tom speak. But Tom knew he had, knew from the way his spine went stiff and his shoulders bunched up around his ears.

But just as Harry turns back again, no doubt to lash his fierce tongue upon Tom, to spit and deny and deflect, a sound comes from just beyond the front door, like the scuff of a shoe on the garden path. They both fall quiet and on surprisingly silent feet, Harry backs right up to stand flush against Tom and falls into a defensive stance without hesitation. Clearly, he’s all too eager to fight his way out of the situation.

“Your relatives?” He breathes over the boy's shoulder, wand held ready in hand.

“I don’t think-”

But what Harry didn’t think, Tom wouldn’t find out, as at that moment the door handle starts to twist slowly, turning to allow the lock to unlatch again. Thinking quickly, Tom grabs the back of Harry’s jumper and tugs them into the small cupboard, one hand covering the reactive yelp the boy makes and the other using his wand to pull the slanted door quickly but silently shut, just as the front door begins to open. In such a small space they’re forced to press entirely up against each other and, being much taller than Harry, Tom lets go of Harry’s face to instead grip onto his waist, stopping himself from teetering over. They hold their breaths behind their teeth, straining to listen over the blood rushing in their ears as the newcomer steps into the house and shuts the door again, their clothes rustling audibly in the silent hallway. There is barely enough room in here for one teenage boy, let alone two, and the strain of keeping his muscles locked in place begins to burn through Tom’s thighs already, making his grip on Harry tighten. The boy’s breath catches just slightly, and this close Tom can practically feel how his heart is thundering right in his own chest.

Whoever it is walks miraculously past the cupboard door without pausing, their footsteps then sounding on the tiled floor of the kitchen. There’s a few accompanying sounds, like a cabinet door opening then closing, a chair being moved from under the table, but all the while they say nothing to help them figure out who it could be or why they’d come in. Tom’s chin digs into Harry’s shoulder, entire body trembling under the effort of staying still as the figure walks past again, and Harry presses his weight back as if to help steady him. There’s a loud creak right in his ear and a resulting cascade of dust as the person then begins to climb the stairs. It tickles in his nose and eyes, irritating at the worst possible time, but as they climb further up a new plan begins to form.

Barely having to lean down, he presses his lips to Harry’s ear, speaking in the softest, quietest hiss as the landing above creaks and moves under the weight of the stranger above.

“Can you tell where they are upstairs?”

Harry tilts his head, the soft tufts of his hair kissing Tom’s cheek. Another creak, this one far louder than the rest. Harry seems to recognise it instantly.

“Main bedroom, looking over the back garden.”

“We’ll go out the front then. I’m going to silently open both the doors, keep your wand in hand and get ready to go.”

A single nod, and Tom does as he’d just said, wordlessly commanding his magic out to open the cupboard door and the front door without a single sound. Harry steps out first on hesitant feet, peering up through the wooden slats of the stair rail as he tiptoes over to the front door. Tom ducks out of the cupboard with aching shoulders and shuts it just as quietly as before, making sure no thing looks amiss. Harry is already out through the front door, waiting for Tom under the porch but as Tom moves to join him, a flare of white light hits him in the back and his illusion spell shatters.

From up the stairs, there’s a loud yell and clomping footsteps, “POTTER!” but Tom is already out through the front door, slamming it shut with his wand.

He turns to a panicked Harry, shoving at him. “Go go go!!”

Much like the last time they were here, Harry wastes no time in digging his heels into the ground and pushing himself into a full sprint, Tom right on his heels as they tear through the rain, the sound of their stalker not far behind. Spellfire begins to flash through the downpour with no regard for their setting, making them have to duck and swerve, cursing all the while.

“Stop, Potter, or I’ll blow this street and all the disgusting Muggles in it to pieces!” The man behind bellows, firing again. Tom goes to carry on, uncaring of his claim, but Harry - stupid, bleeding heart Harry Potter - grinds to a sudden stop, sending Tom nearly crashing into him as he stops short too.

“Keep going!” He spits, reaching out to grab him but having to stop and twist, slashing his wand up to avoid the red stunner that comes flying his way.

He will not be taken off guard by another Stupefy in Little Whinging!

The man, now standing in the middle of the road a few feet away, sneers at Tom and tuts in mocking. He’s stocky, a few dark wisps of hair atop his balding head, and his skin is rough and textured like a bag of potatoes gone rotten and old.

They stand staring each other down, waiting to see who will strike out first. Harry is at his side, hissing urgently. “The Muggles, Tom! You can’t attack him here, everyone will see!”

“He started it!” Tom can’t help but point out, irritated at the scolding tone. The man bends in the middle as he cackles madly, clearly deranged on top of being idiotic.

“Talking to yourself, Potter? Finally lost your mind have you, like your stupid Mudblood moth-”

But the man doesn't get to finish. Despite Harry’s earlier protest, he has no problem stepping forward with a fierce cry, throwing a spell of snapping red at the man, who manages to block it but visibly stumbles back under the force of it. The mocking sneer slides right off his ugly face as he looks from the empty space where the spell had come from to Tom, clearly having had the impression that he was Harry.

If he were to walk over and knock on the man’s skull, Tom is almost certain it would echo. How could he not know what Harry Potter looked like? Voldemort truly had fallen from grace, to keep the company of such fools.

But there’s no time to dwell on the idioticness of his predecessor, as the attacker starts up a crusade of spells, targeting Tom but also throwing them wide to try and catch out the still invisible Harry, who’s jumped into the fray like a fish to water, moving about and shielding against the onslaught with admirable natural skill. He gives as good as he gets, sending off jinxes and hexes like there’s no tomorrow, and Tom can only hope he can duel Harry himself one day, just to have that exhilarating force turned on him. Instead, he uses the more biting, dark spells that Harry would not use even if he knew them, covering the gaps that the other leaves and successfully driving the man back under their combined force.

His face becomes warped with rage as each of his spells fade and fizzle against their shields, and in desperation his movements become short and sloppy as he shoots out dangerous, fatal spells, entrails expelling hexes and bone crunching curses joining the familiar streaks of Crucio red.

Eventually though one of his spells manages to slip through their forces, hitting Tom right on the shoulder and sending him down to the floor, gasping in pain. Every nerve feels aflame, pulling and twisting and it takes every scrap of dignity he still has to not let the scream trapped in his throat break free. Harry is there at his side instantly, knees slamming against the wet floor as he hovers worriedly over Tom, leaving his back wide open to attack.

“Ha-Harr-” Tom attempts to gasp, to warn him not to let his attention waver. He can see through the black fog of unconsciousness that is attempting to take him under that the man is stepping closer with a victorious grin on his face, raising his wand at Harry’s back.

There’s a bright flash, a cry of Harry’s name that might or might not come from him and then everything is fading into black. Before he loses his grip on reality for good though, he manages one last bitter vow to never return to Little Whinging again. Getting knocked out twice here is two times too many as it is.

He comes to again laying spread eagle on a slim bed, his injured arm propped up on a pillow and wrapped in bandages. It leaves his chest exposed to the chill of the air where his shirt is hanging open, but thankfully that’s as far as his discomfort goes, no lingering twinges of pain left as he sits up to greet Harry as he enters the room.

“Feeling okay?” The boy asks, coming to sit on the bed by Tom’s knees. Unlike his earlier, when seeing Tom’s bare chest had him blushing and flustering, he rakes his gaze over him now only to survey the skin for any leftover signs of pain.

“Spiffing.” He replies, feeling anything but. There was no physical pain, but his ego had once again been battered by being carted away like a damsel while being unconscious. Tom was meant to be better than this, he’d never had so many hits while he’d been in school. He’d like to chalk it up to still being so newly awake and not back on his usual level of skill, but it’s a weak excuse and he knows it. Something he’ll have to rectify as soon as possible.

Harry seems to know what direction his thoughts have drifted, as he sets a light hand on the blanket over Tom’s knee and gives it an affirming squeeze.

“Don’t be sour, Tom. I’m just glad it only caught your shoulder otherwise Lupin might not have been able to undo it so quickly.”

“Would you have missed me, Harry?” Tom teases, wondering who this Lupin person is and if he’ll have to actually thank them for helping him. He hopes not.

That finally has the boy’s cheeks colouring, blooming into spots of delicious pink. His lips turn into a scowl, although it’s not as fierce as it could be.

“I can’t have you flaking out on me yet. I still have need of you.” Harry says, bringing his reassuring hand away to cross his arms instead.

Tom grins wide. “Use me as you will,” He purrs just to see how much farther down that colour goes. Rather far, he’s pleased to see. Before Harry can blow up from overheating through, Tom steers them back on track. “So, who’s Lupin? What happened?”

Glad for the subject change, Harry begins to explain. “Arabella Figg, one of my neighbours who I used to go to a lot when I was younger, she’s a squib and part of the order. She saw all the flashes of magic and thought you were me, so she Floo’d the order and they arrived just as you got hit. Lestrange scarpered - that’s who was attacking us.” He clarifies for Tom when his brows pull down. He’d gone to school with a Lestrange, Francis, in the year below. He’d been one of Tom’s Knights, which he supposes explained why one of his possible son’s was a Death Eater.

“What’s the Order?”

“The Order of the Phoenix. It’s a rebellion group, you could say, that was founded back in Voldemort’s first war. Dumbledore used to be in charge of it,” Here, Harry stops and slumps, sighing as he runs his fingers under his glasses. Tom watches his weary frame closely, wondering just how long he’d been asleep for. “None of them knew he was dead. They’d been trying to contact him… I had to tell them he was gone.”

This gives Tom a bit of pause, and he sits up further, leaning closer to the other boy. “What did you say to them?” Surely he wouldn’t have spilled about the Horcruxes?

“I said that Dumbledore had picked me up a few days ago to go on a mission, something to do with the Prophecy, and that he’d died during it and left the task to me instead. They weren’t happy, even less so when I said I’d be going off on my own instead of going to Hogwarts.”

“Not entirely on your own,” Tom reminds him. “What did you say about me?”

Harry’s shoulders shrug. “That Dumbledore brought you with him and that you’re here to help me. Not a lie.”

“But not the truth.”

“What did you expect me to say? That you’re the one who killed him?” Harry jabs under his breath, darting a look at the door. No one comes bursting in to string Tom up by his thumbs, so presumably they’re not being listened to.

“I told you he chose to die there, Harry, I didn’t make him do that.”

“Whatever,” Harry mutters mulishly before carrying on, “anyway, we’re in one of the other safe houses of the Order. Belongs to Andromeda Tonks, one of Sirius’ cousins, though she’s not really in the order as such. It’s only her, her family and Lupin here now, but earlier there were more. They had a lot to say.”

Tom finally gets out of the bed, standing up with a stretch. He winds his bandaged arm back through the sleeve and waves a hand up his front buttons to magic them closed. There’s a small window in the room so he walks over to inspect their surroundings, seeing only stretches of green fields and hills for miles around. A long way off from London then.

“Like what?” He says after a few moments. It takes Harry a while to answer, having got lost in his own thoughts while Tom had been looking outside, but he stands and joins him as he returns to the topic.

“The old minister Fudge stepped down, I guess embarrassed or scared that he’d been calling me a liar all of last year and then Voldemort appeared to prove him wrong. Someone named Rufus Scrimgeour is in his place now, but the Ministry is struggling. Voldemort hasn't exactly been quiet, attacking Muggle and Magical places, sending his Death Eaters on raids and kidnapping people left and right. The head of the Auror unit is dead, one of my classmates Aunt’s and some bloke named Yaxley is in her place. A Death Eater plant, one of many.”

They stare out at the scenery, so calm in the face of the storm that’s rolling in, hanging overhead with foreboding energy. So Voldemort had already begun his infestation. The Ministry would not hold out against him for long.

“Dark times,” Tom says, barely audible. Still, Harry hears it loud and clear, sighing in return.

“Dark times,” He echoes.

They fall into silence for a while after that, side by side watching the sky as it steadily darkens on the horizon.

Chapter Text

Eventually there’s a soft knock on the door, stirring Tom and Harry away from their distracted staring. They look over as one when the door opens just enough for a head of cascading shiny, dark curls to peek through, searching them out with pale blue eyes.

“Oh, you’re up then. There’s dinner on the table if you’re hungry.” The woman says, voice deliberately calm and soothing, like she’s speaking to a dog prone to snapping. Perhaps that’s what they are, he and Harry, just two creatures unaccustomed to a gentle touch or a helping hand. His stomach grumbles, thoroughly barren, and his polite manners settle back into place as he offers her a smile.

“That would be most welcome. You must be Mrs Tonks?”

The woman nods. “You can just call me Andromeda. Come through when you’re ready.” With a last, searching look, she closes the door once more and walks away. Harry sighs.

“They’ll probably ambush us again over dinner,” He mumbles, ducking his head. Tom finds himself reaching up to pet over his hair, like a master and their unruly dog, earning himself a scoff and slant of annoyed green.

“There, there, dear Harry. I won’t leave you to be questioned all on your own. Let’s go.” Tom straightens his shirt one last time and leads the charge out from their little room, thankfully seeing the edge of a dining table just around one wall. He makes his way over, listening as Harry follows behind diligently on pattering feet.

He’s greeted by a small, rectangular table, two empty place mats sitting side by side on the left. He takes his seat and Harry falls into the one next to him, steadfastly avoiding looking at the table’s other occupants. Tom has no such qualms.

At one end sits Andromeda, who is waving her slim wand to guide plates of food to the middle of the table, inviting them to serve themselves as they please. Opposite her is a man of a similar age, mousy haired and jovial looking - her husband, most likely. Over the table from him and Harry is a woman who might be their daughter, from the hints of their features coming together in her face, then beside her to finish off the table, another man. This one is taller, his face sporting a handful of white scars, and amber eyes that haven’t stopped staring holes into the side of Harry’s face, occasionally drifting to bestow Tom with the same treatment.

Tom’s polite smile doesn’t waver under the scrutiny as he puts his studying on hold to dish himself a hearty helping of roast potatoes, vegetables, chicken and yorkshire puddings. A veritable feast to his poor, neglected stomach. He pours plenty of gravy over, then passes the jug along to Harry.

They eat in silence, not quite tense but neither easy going, only the scrapes of their cutlery against ceramic filling the small dining room, and eventually the man sitting opposite Andromeda seems to buckle under the figurative weight of it.

“Arm feeling alright now then, lad?” He asked, directing his question to Tom and nodding his head towards his injured arm.

Tom swallows his mouthful of food. “Yes, thank you. Harry says I have a fellow named Lupin to thank for that?”

The scarred man shuffles in his seat, appearing awkward. “Yes, that would be me. You were lucky to only be clipped on the shoulder, I might not have been able to stop it otherwise.”

“The lack of pain tells me I was in capable hands, either way. My thanks again, Mr Lupin.”

“Ah, just Remus please.”

Tom concedes, “Remus, then.” before going back to his food.

Remus Lupin, he thinks to himself, barely containing a snort. How ironic for a werewolf to be named as such. The amber eyes had been the first tell, the scars a second. Tom could not slip into his thoughts by simply looking into them either, a natural defence he’d read about once. He’d never met one personally, but Tom knew all the signs. He looks at Harry, catching his eye. One dip into that woefully unprotected mind confirms it for sure.

When the meal is coming to a close, their plates cleared and the food sitting heavy on Tom’s stomach, Remus seems to have found his voice once more, enough to try and coax the reserved boy next to Tom into conversation.

“We would really like it if you could stay here tonight, Harry. There’s still so much to discuss and none of us like the thought of you going somewhere unknown by yourself. Not with the Death Eaters becoming more bold with their attacks.”

Harry, stubborn creature that he is, clearly dislikes the idea of needing to be watched over like an infant.

“I’m not alone. I have Tom.” He declares, sure as certain. It fills him with glee, white hot pleasure soaring through his blood at the bold claim.

Remus clearly isn't of the same belief. He looks at Tom with thinly veiled suspicion, one mirrored in the faces of the other three sitting at the table.

“While we admire your loyalty, Harry, you have to understand our concerns. None of us have even heard of Tom before today! I’m sure you’re as you say you are,” He adds in Tom’s direction, his tone turning contrite, much to his amusement. “But with things as uncertain as they are right now we can’t be taking risks. Especially with Dumbledore gone! You need to be here, with people who can protect you! You’re still underage, how can you-”

Remus had stood at some point, impassioned as he spoke, and Harry joined him now, banging his palms on the table and making the others jump.

“Protect me? Protect me!? I don’t need your protection, I’ve never needed it! Every time I’ve faced Voldemort I’ve done it on my own! There was no one there to protect me then and I don’t need it now! I’ve told you, I have a mission that Dumbledore left me! Me and Tom and no one else, and sitting around here arguing about it doesn’t change that!”

Andromeda gets to her feet, ushering the plates into the nearby kitchen. Her husband joins her after a moment but the other woman stays put, watching Remus and Harry with furrowed brows. Tom reclines in his chair, patting his full belly absently as he observes.

Remus rubs over the bridge of his nose, appearing aged and weary. “How are you meant to do that, Harry? You’ve not told us where you’re going to stay, how you’re going to be kept safe while you do this ‘task’-” Here, he makes little finger motions, as if doubting the existence of such a thing in the first place. This only serves to rile Harry up more.

“What, you don’t believe me? Is that it? Think I'm just as mad as the papers say?” Harry snipes, hackles effectively raised.

Remus waves his large hands in denial and the woman finally stands as well, looking imploringly at Harry.

“Of course we don’t think that! But it’s just, so much has happened with you recently, I mean only a few weeks have passed since the Ministry-”

Harry steps back, flinching harshly. They all catch the movement, but only Tom is left slightly puzzled by the reaction. He finally joins them all in standing and lays a hand on Harry’s shoulder as a physical tether. Pointedly, the boy does not shake him off, instead dropping his head to choke back deep, gasping breaths as he tries to pull himself back together.

Tom turns a flat eyed look to the culprits of Harry’s upset, smiling without warmth.

“It’s been a trying day, as I’m sure you’re most aware,” He digs, glad to see them baulk in response. “Harry and I will stay tonight to help assuage your concerns, but we’ll be leaving on the morrow. Dumbledore’s task is most definitely real, and it will require our complete attention. Goodnight.”

With that, he stears Harry away from the table, back in the direction of the room he’d woken up in. No one protests or tries to follow, so once he’s closed the door behind them, Tom slips his wand out to add a few wards on top to keep it that way.

Harry sinks down onto the bed, flopping onto his back. He sits still like that, simply breathing in and out while Tom watches, before at last pulling himself out of whatever dark cloud he’d been lost in and letting out a groan of dismay.

“They’re never going to let us leave.”

“Of course they will. And if they don’t, I shall make them.”

It’s telling to his exhaustion that Harry only huffs a little to the barely veiled threat, sluggishly rolling his eyes to look at Tom where he's taken a seat at the small desk.

“No murder, Tom.”

“Cross my heart,” He promises, if only to make Harry laugh. He does so, tired little puffs of noise escaping his nose.

“Like you have one.” The boy retorts.

“Touché.”

The room falls quiet, their matched steady breathing filling the air. Outside, the sky beyond the window is truly dark now, only Tom’s reflection staring back at him as he looks out. His thoughts drift away, mulling over the events of the day - the past few days really, categorising things in his mind. The fake Locket takes up a significant portion, compelling and infuriating in equal measure. He yearns to get back to it, to study the letter inside again, to write down everything Dumbledore had told them about the Horcruxes and Voldemort’s life after he’d disposed of Tom in the Ring.

The ring. Tom looks down at it on his fingers, rolling it around compulsively.

A small snore breaks through his haze and Tom looks over at the bed. Harry had rolled away from him, showing Tom his back where he’d curled up into a tight little ball, hugging a throw cushion as he slept. His round glasses were still in place on his face, smushed in what must be an uncomfortable position.

With a sigh, Tom walks over and slowly eases them off the boy's face, folding them and setting them onto the nightstand with care. Barely thinking about it, he takes up the folded blanket from the end and throws it over Harry, making sure he’s completely covered before going back to sit at the desk. Tom would rather not be so vulnerable, in a place he doesn’t know with a house full of people he doesn’t trust. So instead he riffles through the desk, finding some parchment and a quill and ink, settling in place for a few hours of planning and brainstorming.

He draws six little stars in bullet points and then beside them writes the Horcruxes he knows; The Diary - destroyed, the Ring - absorbed, the Locket - ?, the Cup - ?. The other two stars sit empty for now, though he makes a note below them about the Hogwarts Houses, specifically something belonging to the house of Ravenclaw and the house of Gryffindor.

Then he makes a few notes about the defences of each one, the curse attached to his Ring that had sentenced Dumbledore to death, the entire cave business surrounding the Locket and the Diary which in itself had defences built in, his younger self hidden within to entice and enchant the foolish prey who chose to write in his pages. The Locket had been bestowed with an entire different level of protection, but why? Did Voldemort keep that level of dedication up for the other three?

Most of his scrawling questions bloom out into other, unanswerable queries, which has him huffing and grumbling in frustration. He stands up and paces the small room, back and forth over and over, so caught up in his scrambled thoughts that he nearly misses the whimper coming from the bed.

Tom stops in place, twisting around to look at Harry’s back. He waits, wondering if he’s misheard, but no, Harry makes another little sound and squirms on the bed, beginning to pant.

Hesitantly, Tom approaches the boy. “Harry?” he whispers.

On the bed, Harry continues to thrash, growing more and more wild in his movements until turning over onto his back with his face scrunched up with pain. His brow is soaked with sweat, and his scar, where his hair has fallen to the side, stands red and irritated against his pale skin. Tom looks from it to Harry’s twitching shoulders and arms. A nightmare? Not so surprising, he supposes. He reaches out for Harry’s shoulder, thinking that shoving him awake and out of it would be for the best.

“Harry, wake up.”

Before he can make contact however, Harry’s lips fall open, twisted up into a snarl.

“You’ve disappointed me.” He hisses, not quite in Parseltongue but veering very close. His words are cutting in a way that’s unfamiliar in Harry’s voice, like they don’t belong to him at all. Tom stares, backing up a few paces with his hand still half raised.

What on earth?

Harry’s back curves as he falls onto his other side on the bed, nearly hanging off it. He mutters a few other words, failure, boy, and Muggles before falling quiet again. Then, just when Tom thinks it’s over, Harry’s head is thrown back on his pillow as he laughs, high and cruel and completely chilling. It goes on for a few seconds until the cackling turns into hacking, and Harry starts to cough and choke madly.

Finally Tom steps forward, waving his wand so a stream of Aguamenti shoots over Harry’s head.

The boy sits upright with a shocked gasp, coughing anew. Perhaps not the best method for waking someone already choking.

“Whaahh!! Tom! What was that for?” He shrieks, squinting furiously at Tom as he jumps up out of the wet puddle left on the bed, shaking his hair out like a dog. When he doesn’t respond, Harry snatches up his glasses and turns his annoyed, tired eyes on him, full of accusation.

“Well?”

“You were talking in your sleep.” Is all Tom can say, soft and barely audible in the room. He’s still reeling from the strange behaviour, trying to figure out what it all meant. Was it just a dream, or something more? That laugh… It was so unlike anything he’d known Harry to make. One could argue he hadn’t known Harry long, but even so, it was odd.

Some of Harry’s bad mood at being awoken seems to disappear at Tom’s words though, leaving a sheepish, worried face behind.

“Oh,” He mutters, and drops his arms from his chest. “Sorry, didn't mean to disturb you. I’m surprised it took so long for the nightmares to come back, to be honest. I’d been having them every night before.” Then, Harry winces like he hadn’t meant to share that last bit. He yawns and snatches his wand up to dry the bed.

But Tom can’t let it go, can’t shake that it was something more than a mere nightmare.

“Do you remember what you dreamt of?” He asks, a gentle prod.

“Huh? Oh, uh, no actually.” Harry rubs his face tiredly, but seems to be telling the truth. “Why? What did I say?”

Though he sounds worried, Tom feels it’s more out of embarrassment than deceit. He lets go of the breath stuck in his chest and gives the other a disarming smile.

“Nothing interesting. Apologies for the abrupt wake up call. Go back to sleep.”

Harry looks between him and the bed. “What about you? Aren’t you going to sleep?”

Tom seats himself back at the desk, turned away from Harry as he answers.

“No, I’m fine. You go ahead.”

He listens as Harry sets his glasses back down on the nightstand and shuffles back under the blanket. The lamp on the table goes off, leaving only the one he’s using at the desk aglow.

“Night,” Harry mutters and soon after the sound of his breathing evens out again, soft little snuffles accompanying them. Tom stares down at the wood grain and answers long after Harry is too far gone to hear it.

“Goodnight.”

Despite his claims of refusing to sleep so unprotected and vulnerable, Tom finds himself jolting awake from his slumped position on the desk some hours later, disturbed by the sun's fingers caressing his cheek through the window. He sits up with a groan, feeling stiff from his head to his very numb toes, yawning painfully wide.

There’s a clock on the far wall, alongside a few seemingly hand painted landscapes, and it reads eight o’clock.

Ugh. Tom could really do with another few hours, the last time he’d registered was three something, but he’d be getting no more rest on that rickety bloody chair. Looking over at the bed tells him that Harry hasn’t moved much in his sleep, clearly undisturbed from further dreams or uncomfortable resting places.

Lucky him.

Briefly, spitefully, he entertains the idea of waking the messy haired boy with another bout of Aguamenti, just to hear his girlish yelling, before casting the idea aside. Fun as it would be, he needs Harry in a good mood to go out there and convince the ‘Order’ to let them leave, and the sooner they do the sooner he can get back and have a nap, before getting to the proper work of hunting the Horcruxes.

Still, he can’t hold himself back completely. He walks over and hovers over Harry’s sleeping, peaceful face, then speaks directly into his ear very loudly.

“Good morning, Harry!”

The boy’s eyes fly open, wide with panic and alarm. Tom jumps back on quick feet, crowing in delight as Harry swings up out of the bed and promptly gets his legs tangled in the blanket.

“TOM! God, I’m going to kill you! Just you wait -” Harry spits, completely incensed, fighting to get his feet under him. Tom chortles in a most undignified manner.

“I’m waiting, Harry, whenever you’re ready.”

That has Harry snatching up his wand and sending a jinx at Tom, which he hurries to dodge. It fizzles as it hits the chair instead.

“You’re a complete tosser, Tom Riddle!” Finally on his feet, Harry is pink in the face with annoyance. His hair is completely wild, standing up every which way in a fairly impressive show of defiance.

“Only to you, Harry Potter.” He vows, completely truthful. Something about Harry brings out the childish side of him, the side he kept locked up tight around his peers in Slytherin. They required a more cleverly mischievous, poised version of Tom that took many years of practice to get right, and he relishes in the opportunity to let a little more loose now. Harry gave as good as he got and they matched up with each other’s levels of rascality perfectly.

Once again, they’re interrupted by a knock on the door. It doesn’t open this time though, due to Tom’s wards in place, and the knocking and calling becomes a little more frantic.

“Harry? Are you in there? There’s breakfast, and I have a surprise out here for you. Harry?” Remus Lupin’s tone is rife with worry.

Harry crosses over to the door and waves off the magic in place, leaving Tom to stare wondrously at the apparent easy nature that he does it in as he pulls it open to come face to face with the werewolf.

“Yes, I’m here,” He says shortly, his sour mood with the man from last night not altogether dampened by sleep. “What do you mean, surprise?”

While the sight of Harry in front of him has some of the tension leaking from those lanky shoulders, when Remus looks from the boy’s pink face to the rumpled bed, and Tom standing just beside it still grinning, those amber eyes turn steely and dark. His nostrils flare, clearly scenting for something ‘unsavoury’ like a sniffer dog. It takes everything in Tom not to make a leery expression, just to wind him up and watch him go. When he smells nothing of the sort, obviously, he turns his attention back to Harry who’s standing cross armed waiting for an answer.

“Come and find out. We’re in the garden, since it’s a nice day.” Remus tempts, or tries to anyway.

“We’ll be out in a few minutes.” Is all Harry says, closing the door on the man’s frowning face. Then, he turns to Tom, who beats him to the punch.

“Your pet wolf thinks I’ve stolen your virtue.” He can’t help teasing, wagging his eyebrows suggestively.

Harry’s face practically lights on fire, burning into bright blotches of red.

“Can you just behave for once, please? Whatever it is they’ve pulled together is clearly meant to sway me into staying for longer, so just keep quiet and let me handle it, alright?”

Ah. Not completely blind then, his Harry. Clearly expecting a verbal answer, Harry’s brow arches up.

Tom folds his hands behind his back and smiles.

“Lead the way then.”

With a huff, Harry slips his shoes back on his feet and does just that, striding out of the room like a soldier wading off to war. Tom keeps a few paces behind him, intrigued as to what they’ve brought out as a weapon against Harry’s solid wall of stubborness. They go out the back door, following the babble of chatter belonging to far more people than were present last night.

When they step out into the sunshine, Tom sees an elongated dining table set out in the garden, laden with plates upon plates of breakfast foods and surrounded by an alarming amount of red headed people. Harry stops short, sending Tom colliding into his back.

“Oh, shit.” Is what Harry says, lost to the sudden noise that erupts as the table sets their eyes on him. They all begin to clamber up, calling out to Harry. “Shit, shit, shit!” Harry whinges.

“What is it? Who are they?” Tom quickly asks, sensing their weapon of choice had been a very effective one, to send Harry’s steady resolution crumbling already.

“The Weasleys. They’re my.. well. My family, or as good as.” Harry explains and then starts off towards them, drawn in despite knowing better. Tom lingers by the door, half contemplating going back inside.

They would clearly be here for a long while yet.

Damn you, Remus Lupin.

Tom sets off after Harry, cursing the wolf to hell and back in his head as he does so. He’s already lost sight of the boy to the cluster of orange, completely lost in hugs and smothering from his gaggle of Weasleys. Andromeda, her husband and daughter, whose names he never asked for, and Remus are sitting watching happily from one end of the table. When Tom draws up beside them, Remus shoots a look of victory his way, and then covers it by clearing his throat.

“Ah, do take a seat, Tom. I fear Harry may be a while yet, if Molly has anything to say about it.” He says pleasantly, waving to an empty seat across from him.

“Thank you,” He says, mentally listing the multiple ways of killing werewolves as he fights to not leap across the table and throttle the damn mongrel, sitting with all the grace he beat into himself to fit in. He helps himself to the spread of fresh fruit laid in the middle of the table, gulping down glassfuls of water as he watches the scene.

No less than six redheads are standing in a tight circle around Harry, as well as a singular bush of brown hair slotted amongst the fray, each of them demanding Harry’s attention, ruffling his hair, cupping his cheek, patting his shoulders.

Tom’s teeth grind against each other, the hand in his lap turning to a fist under the table, aching for his wand. He watches raptly as the cult of Weasleys finally seem ready to let Harry go, each one meandering back to their places at the table. Harry however reaches out and grabs the arm of the girl Weasley, keeping her back before she can sit down. He ducks his head to speak into her ear and, unseen by Harry but in full view of Tom, the girl’s face first lights up in a flush at the close contact before whatever is being whispered to her seems to register. Her eyes dart up and jump about the table until they land on him, blowing wide with apparent fear as the colour bleeds out of her face in an instant.

Unfortunately his attention is soon drawn away from studying each of the curious reactions of the girl by everyone sitting down and beginning to dig into breakfast. There’s bacon, eggs, sausages, tomatoes and hash browns - whoever had cooked today had pulled out all the stops. Tom butters himself some toast and serves himself a little of each dish, not feeling overly hungry, a strange, irritating restlessness instead taking up room in his stomach.

He’s also none too subtly being stared at as he does so, sized up by everyone at the table new and known to him much like the dinner last night. He takes it all with the grace of the Slytherin he is, of course, meeting their looks with a calm facade and polite manners. The bushy haired girl who had come with the Weasleys, a cousin perhaps though she lacked any resemblance, doesn’t take her eyes off him for a second. When Tom bites into his toast and flicks the crumbs away with an easy wandless vanishing charm, her eagle eyes of course catch the movement and they narrow suspiciously.

At last though Harry’s hushed conversation comes to an end and he walks along the length of the table to sit down in the empty place between Tom and the youngest redheaded boy, a harried look clinging to his features though his smile is genuine. Perhaps that’s the problem, Tom muses as he continues to eat, nudging the plate of sausages Harry’s way. Though the boy knew it was a trap, it was the most enticing kind, a trap he didn’t want to resist. Like a fly drawn to honey, the reward was sweet yet sticky, hard to pull away from. A smart move on their part and one they well utilised.

Tom rather thought they’d be fighting their way out of this place, in some sense of the word. They clearly did not want to relinquish Harry to Tom, no matter what the boy said about Dumbledore’s last wishes.

The girl goes off to the other side of the table, as far from Tom as she can get, and promptly hides herself away behind the curtains of her long hair. Occasionally, she’ll peer at Tom with fleeting quick looks and he makes sure to meet them head on every time, sending her jumping back behind the makeshift safety of her hair. Strange indeed.

Harry gives him a kick under the table and when Tom turns away from the girl at last, he sees the boy is sending him a warning look over his mouthful of breakfast. His voice from earlier rings in Tom’s ears telling him to behave.

He smiles insolently and turns to the table, everyone’s eyes suddenly dropping from where they’d been observing the two of them.

“You’ll have to forgive me,” He says with faux shame, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I’m afraid I don’t know many of your names. Nonetheless, it’s wonderful to meet you all. I’m Tom.”

At the end of the table, the girl chokes on her mouthful, spluttering. One of the twins pats her on the back forcefully until she settles down again, only Harry’s stiffness at his side hinting at something more than meets the eye with her reaction.

Andromeda’s husband seems to take the jump to begin introductions, seeing as no one else moves to speak.

“Not to worry, not to worry. Well you know Remus and my Andy of course. And that’s my beautiful daughter Nymphadora-”

The aforementioned daughter scowls and, surprisingly, her hair bleeds into a pinky red from the mousey common colour it was before.

“Dad!” She hisses, embarrassed. Tom can only gawk at her, physically slack jawed in astonishment until Harry sends another kick his way.

The man laughs happily. “Sorry, dear, sorry. She doesn’t like the name her poor parents spent months deciding on, you see,” He explains to Tom. “She prefers to be called Tonks.”

Andromeda pipes up then, exasperated. “You have yet to introduce yourself.”

“Oh yes! And I’m Ted.”

“I’m glad to put the names to the faces. Forgive me, Tonks, but are you a Metamorphmagus, by chance?”

Tom can’t help asking, can’t help from the wonderment he feels at meeting an actual person with the ability. It was a dying out trait when he was in school, so to meet one here in the future was nothing short of a miracle. To her credit she colours and nods, and then shifts her nose to look like a beak to prove it.

“Remarkable,” He breathes, completely awed. Remus shifts in his seat, unsettled for reasons unknown. Tom turns to the rest of the table. “And you must be the Weasleys, yes? Harry has mentioned you of course, but it might take me a moment to pinpoint who is who.”

Harry had done no such thing prior to this morning, but only he and Tom knew that. He takes pity on him and nods to each person in turn.

“Well I told you about Fred and George, that’s the twins.” At their names they send Tom mirrored grins, gleaming with mischief. “Don’t accept anything they try to offer you. There’s Ginny,” That’s the girl, who pointedly does not look at him when she’s named.

“Mr and Mrs Weasley, of course.”

The balding man at the other head of the table sits with a cup of tea in his hand, watching the proceedings, and offers a polite nod. “Arthur, and my Molly.” He clarified, patting the back of his wife’s chair. She doesn't offer much to Tom, no smile or greeting, only observing him very closely. A certified mother, keeping her eye on an unknown outsider.

“And this is Ron, my best friend I told you about, and Hermione Granger, my other best friend.”

With those last introductions, Tom can now put names to everyone at the table. And a little more, from the little showings of their nature that he’d be able to observe. None of them trusted him, though he hardly expected them to, but only the protective mother, the strange daughter and the werewolf were so outwardly obvious about it.

“Pleased to meet you all, despite the circumstances.”

There’s a somber pause and everyone wilts a little into their breakfast at the reminder of the most recent bleak news, Dumbledore’s demise.

By the time their plates are cleared and waved away to clean themselves, the sun is lulling Tom into a pleasant, contended haze, so much so that he reclines in his chair and closes his eyes with a sigh, brushing against Harry’s arm. Arthur, Tonks and Ted had gotten to their feet and left for work together a little bit ago and the twins had done the same not long after, despite the protests from their mother about the dangers. Apparently they owned a joke shop on Diagon Alley that had opened earlier that Summer, but they were too proud and stubborn to stop running their business even in light of the raids and the fear rife in the streets these days.

Andromeda goes back inside with Molly after breakfast, drawn away to the domestic duties of housewives, and Remus urges them all to their feet so he can return the table and chair inside reluctantly. Tom stretches and yawns, still feeling heady with sun warmed fatigue.

As predicted, as soon as they were out of earshot of the adults, Granger whirls around on Harry, determined to get her answers.

“Harry, tell us what’s going on!” She cries, clearly at her limit of being left in the dark. The strange daughter also seems to have finally found her tongue and courage as she quickly follows up with her own barked question.

“Tell us what Tom bloody Riddle is doing sitting here like he’s not got a single care in the world!”

Tom looks around, delighted to see Granger and the boy Weasley jump back in alarm. Harry’s shoulders slump down and he lets out another one of his groans, full of weariness.

“Tom Riddle?” Granger repeats, incredulous.

“As I live and breathe.” He confirms. Like a raging bull, Ginny goes red in the face and makes as if to charge, forgoing her wand and raising her fists like a madwoman. Tom steps back, putting Harry between them as a physical barrier while the boy puts his hands up to stop the girl.

“Look, just stop for a second, please! I’ll explain what I can, but you need to hear me out! I told you not to freak out, Ginny!”

Ron pipes up, face shocked and pale behind his smattering of freckles. He keeps a few feet away from Tom and stares at him like he expects him to start sending killing curses flying out the end of his wand at any moment.

“I think she’s well within her right to freak out, mate.” He says, words almost lost to how his sister is spitting with rage.

“How can you stand to be near him like he didn’t nearly kill me, kill you! It’s Voldemort, Harry, can’t you see?!”

Kill her? A memory plays then, of the first day he met Harry, ‘you were well on your way to draining the life out of an innocent little girl to come to life again’. That was what Harry had shot at him when he was demanding to know who he’d killed to leave his Ring, like his Diary had attempted to do before him. So, Ginny Weasley was that ‘innocent little girl’ then. That certainly explained her deranged behaviour, and why Harry had chosen to forewarn her before breakfast.

She continues to try and edge past Harry to hit out at Tom, growling and hissing like a feral beast.

“This isn’t helping anything!” Granger bursts out, throwing her hands up. Tom quite agrees.

“Get a hold of yourself or I’ll do it for you.” Tom suggests kindly, all too ready to knock her out and put an end to her tantrum, feeling oddly irate at how close she presses against Harry to try and get to him.

No one else seems to like that idea though.

Harry spins round on him and jabs Dumbledore’s wand at him without a second thought, hitting him in the chest with a stinging hex. Tom clasps his smarting skin through his shirt, hissing indignantly.

“I told you to behave!” Harry bites, annoyed.

“Did you just do magic?!” Granger shrieks, sending the nearby birds fleeing at the high pitched noise.

“Bloody hell.” Ron adds, hanging his head.

Tom rather wants to join him.

Bloody hell indeed.

After a tense little standoff, they decide to traipse around the perimeters of the house wardline for lack of other things to do, Tom in the back and Ginny in the front, the other three in the middle as a precaution. As they walk in the strange marching line formation, Harry stiltedly tries to explain a few things, apparently more forthcoming with information for these ‘best’ friends of his, unlike he was with Lupin.

“Dumbledore broke my trace so I’m allowed to do magic now. He also gave me his wand before he died, because his magic wasn’t working.”

“But what about your wand?” Granger queries, apparently taking the lead with the questioning.

“Tom has it.”

“Right. Tom Riddle, as in Voldemort’s younger self, has your wand? A smart idea, that.” Ginny snarks.

Harry sighs. Tom wants to rip every orange hair out of the girl's head, to grab a big fistful and yank-

Harry’s voice cuts his daydreaming short, “Sounds insane, I know. But he’s not Voldemort, not really.”

“What a glowing report you make of me, Harry.” Tom can’t help adding, stopping to avoid the pointy elbow that gets thrown back at him.

“Quiet, you.”

“But why is he here?” The bushy haired girl demands as they stop at a stone wall to pull themselves up on it for a rest. Tom does no such thing, instead pacing away to lean against a tree trunk opposite, tucked away in the shade. The sun was getting high in the sky, the hours of the day creeping further away from them.

“I can’t tell you much, it’s just too dangerous,” Harry begins, waving his hands to stop the protests before they come. “I was telling the truth when I said it was between me and Dumbledore. Tom’s presence was an accident, you could say, but I would still have to do what I have to do to defeat Voldemort and win the war. Just like that damn prophecy said.”

Harry kicks his heel against the wall, looking down at the floor with a troubled expression.

“That’s all it comes down to, always. Me versus Voldemort, which one of us can kill the other first. Voldemort isn’t going to hang around with his next attempt now that Dumbledore is gone either. I don’t know what I’m doing or where to begin, how long it’ll even take, and worst of all I don’t know how to keep everyone safe in the meantime.” He confessed in a whisper, head dropping in shame.

Ron lays his palm on the back of Harry’s neck, giving him a reassuring shake. “It’s not up to you to worry about everyone, mate. The Ministry and the Order have already started sending fliers and things out to help people be aware of the dangers, and now they know that Dumbledore is gone they’re probably going to double down.”

“Fliers?” Asked Harry, raising his head.

“Yeah,” Granger jumps in, “The Prophet hasn’t been completely hijacked by Death Eater plants yet, as far as we know, and they’re really pushing the safety point hard. I’ve got one of them here,”

She pulls a piece of folded paper from her pocket and hands it over. Tom leaves the shade of the trees so he can read as well, leaning against Harry’s knee as the boy opens it up.

Protecting your home and family against Dark Forces

The Wizarding Community is currently under threat from an organisation calling itself the Death Eaters. Observing the following simple security guidelines will help protect you, your family and your home form attack.

You are advised not to leave the house alone.
Particular care should be taken in the hours of darkness, wherever possible, arrange to complete your journeys before night has fallen.
Review the security arrangements around your house, making sure that all family members are aware of emergency measures such as Shield and Disillusionment Charms, and, in the case of underage family members, Side-Along-Apparition.
Agree on security questions with close friends and family so as to detect Death Eaters masquerading as others by use of Polyjuice Potion (see page 2).
Should you feel that a family member, colleague, friend or neighbour is acting in a strange manner, contact the Magical Law Enforcement Squad immediately. They may have been put under the Imperius Curse (see page 4).
Should the Dark Mark appear over any dwelling place or other building, DO NOT ENTER, but contact the Auror office immediately.
Unconfirmed sightings suggest that the Death Eaters may now be using Inferi (see page 10). Any sighting of an Inferius, or encounter, should be reported to the Ministry IMMEDIATELY.

“Are people taking it seriously?”

Granger furrows her brow with worry, looking out across the green fields surrounding them. “They sort of have to, everyone knows it’s changing out there. Even my parents know something isn’t right and they’re muggles. The random attacks, the list of missing people getting longer and longer.. Nobody has the privilege of ignoring it, besides the ones behind it.”

She takes in a breath, holds in. Tom looks over each of them in turn, matching severe expressions to be found on their faces.

“Without Dumbledore I think everything will get even worse, and fast. So, anything we can do to help you, we will, Harry. We’re here for you.”

Harry jumps down from the wall and meets the bushy haired girl in a fierce hug, Ron soon latching on as well. Tom surveys them with only a slight sneer at such a display, and they all jerk about when a call comes from within the house.

They all move to return inside, and this time Ginny holds Harry back to whisper in his ear, as he had done to her earlier. Tom stops when he notices Harry isn’t behind him, though Ron and Granger carry on none the wiser. She’s got Harry by his hand, holding it tight as she looks at him head on.

Impulsively, Tom quietly summons a snake shadow, a spell he created during the winter of his sixth year when he was bored out of his mind. It allows him to send his shadow pets off anywhere he wants them, listening through them to their surroundings. Physically he crosses his arms and taps his foot in a show of impatience, but his mind is occupied with listening to the whispers floating in his ears.

“ - you to get hurt. He’s a master manipulator, Harry, I spent a whole year with Tom Riddle in my head! You can’t trust a single thing he says-”

“I know that, Ginny!” Harry cuts in. “I’m not an idiot, I know what Tom Riddle has done and is capable of, okay?”

“Well, you seem to be awfully friendly with him! He’s got to you already, I can tell!”

“Look, he’s just - a means to an end, alright? I need him to help me defeat Voldemort and pushing him away because he’s a bit of an arse isn’t going to help me do that.”

Ginny huffs impatiently, looking down. “Just please be careful around him. Please. I don’t want to see you get hurt because of Tom Riddle. Not again.”

From where Tom is standing, he can see Harry bring his arm up to push Ginny’s long hair out of her face to get her to look at him, can hear his nudging little hum as if the boy was right here beside him.

“I’ll be fine, Ginny. I know a thing or two about out manoeuvring Dark Lords, teenage versions included. Don’t worry about me.”

Ginny blushes. “I always worry about you, reckless Gryffindor.”

Tom has heard quite enough. He slashes his shadow snake away and calls out sharply.

“Hurry up, Harry!”

Then, he turns away and marches into the house, biting down on his lip in fury. He’s ready to leave - to get back to Dumbledore’s task, and dilly dallying around here hugging and talking about feelings is not on his to do list. Means to an end! Ha! Harry needed Tom, far more than he needed Harry! He was half tempted to leave the wretched boy here, before remembering how that girl had smothered herself all over him and changing his mind.

As soon as Harry is over the threshold, Tom has him by his shirt and is dragging him into the room they’d shared last night. He splutters the whole way and the others call out in worry and protest. Tom slams the door on them none too gently.

“Tom! Stop dragging me, what’s got into you?” Harry cries, trying to get his feet under him.

“Get your bag from yesterday, Harry, we’re leaving now.” Tom states, turning away to the desk. He’d left his papers from the night before there glamoured to look blank, and he snatches them up now to shove into his pocket.

Harry stammers, taken aback. “N-now? Slow down will you, we can’t leave right this second-”

“Every minute we sit here, Voldemort gets stronger and we waste Dumbledore’s dying wish. Is that what you want, Harry? To let Dumbledore down?”

Tom sees the way his spiteful words land on Harry’s frame, his shoulders bowing and his face falling. Hurt is etched across every line and crease of his face, but Tom is past caring about Harry’s grief.

“Right,” Harry says flatly, gathering the bag of his things from the Dursleys. Tom realised he’d never taken the chance last night to go through it and laments his unusual mood further. What was he doing, teasing Harry and lazing about in the sun? Tom needed to get himself together, to remember what he was here for.

Defeating Voldemort and stepping into the space he’ll leave behind, to take over the Wizarding world the right way, the way he’d intended to do before Horcruxes and Harry Potter.

He grabs hold of Harry’s skinny wrist and yanks the door open. Multiple pairs of confused, concerned faces are watching, waiting. Tom throws a smile too sharp for politeness in their direction and pulls Harry along behind him.

“We’ll be off now, thanks ever so much for this delightful visit, but Harry and I have a world to save. Goodbye.”

Unashamedly, he gets the two of them through Andromeda’s front door and then throws back a strong locking charm to keep them all at bay, dragging an unwilling Harry behind him to the ward line.

By the time the others are through his charm, Tom and Harry have already whirled away, landing back on the front step of Grimmauld Place and stepping back inside without another word said.

Chapter Text

“Where do you think you're going?!”

The front door had barely swung all the way shut behind them before Harry was moving away down the entrance hall with all the speed and grace of a charging bull, the lines of his shoulders held tense and tight. Had it been any other time, Tom might have let the boy go off to sulk like he clearly wants to, but he finds that he doesn’t want to let the heat of his temper fizzle away just yet, doesn't want to feel the encompassing cold that’s left in its place. His chest aches fiercely, his heart is beating a frenzy in his chest as his magic and mood twists with unnamed emotion.

He’s not upset. He’s not.

Harry has ignored his barked question in favour of climbing the stairs, his thunderous stomping upsetting the dust and cobwebs as he goes. Tom rushes after him, his longer legs allowing him to catch up with ease.

“I said, where are you going? We have work to do, remember?”

“Piss of Riddle!” Is the answer he gets hurled back at him, shocking him enough to actually make him stop in place for half a second.

“Oh,” He jeers, letting out a short laugh yet feeling anything but joy, “It’s Riddle now, is it? I see.” Tom reaches the first floor landing and darts around to the foot of the stairs going up to the second, catching Harry halfway up with a silently thrown tripping jinx.

The boy goes crashing down onto the moth bitten carpet with a surprised yelp, colliding harshly with the steps on his hands and knees. He stays there for a minute, panting while his fingers curl into fists against the floor.

“I don’t know what your bloody problem is, but if you keep treating me like a toy you can just throw around when you’re having a tantrum, then I’m done here.” Speaking through gritted teeth, Harry then gets back to his feet and turns to face him from his position a few stairs up. He’s flushed with annoyance and horrifically lovely with it.

It is perhaps the first and only time Tom has had to physically look up at Harry, craning his neck back to stare at him like a disciple looking to their god for guidance. And even as angered as he is, he can’t help admiring the way those deathly green eyes blaze and glitter with fury, feeling how his magpie fingers itch to pluck them from Harry’s skull, to polish and shine them and turn them into priceless jewels meant just for him.

At least then he would always hold all of their attention, their focus.

“You seem to be under a misconception here, Harry.” He starts, trying to keep his tone level, “You are the one who is in need of me, not the other way around.”

Harry laughs, just as void of humour as Tom’s had been earlier. He waves his hands around in the air manically, jabbing his finger in Tom’s direction with accusation.

“You’re such a self important prick! Dumbledore was going to make me find the Horcruxes at some point anyway, with or without you here! You know just as much as me, which is barely anything!”

“Which is why we should be working on finding them and destroying them instead of idling around with your precious ‘family’.”

Harry steps down the stairs with his wand held tightly in hand, but Tom keeps his ground, allowing the boy to crowd in close as he shouts his next words.

“Don’t you dare say a word about them!”

“And why shouldn’t I?”

Harry’s chest is heaving, “They were looking out for me, all they wanted was to help-”

“Oh yes, I’m sure that’s exactly what your little girlfriend wanted to do, help ‘protect’ you from the big bad Tom Riddle who once nearly killed her, such a poor dear.”

His words are dripping with venom, coated with all the confusing, horrendous envy he has for the girl. Tom can hear the blood rushing in his ears and his throat feels tight, constricted, like someone has grabbed him in a chokehold.

Harry, it seems, has reached his limit. He supposes he should have expected the spell that comes flying at him, a loud bang accompanying a streak of sparking red aimed straight for his chest. With so little space between them, Tom has no hope of blocking or side stepping, and as a result he takes a particularly powerful knockback jinx straight to his ribs. He flies back, a breathy, pained gasp the only noise to slip past his lips as all the air has been ejected from his lungs, and lands harshly on the floor right onto his injured arm. It trembles and aches violently, though nothing compared to what the original spell had done.

With a snarl, he twists around from the curled up heap he’d fallen into and flings his wand out at Harry, catching the boy by surprise with a whip-like spell, the tendrils of his magic wrapping around his ankle and yanking as he brings his wand back up. Harry collides just as harshly as he did onto the floor, tripping backwards onto the stairs with an aggrieved cry. He immediately reaches up to cradle his head where it had knocked against the wooden steps, groaning loudly.

“You are.. such.. an arse!” Harry manages through deep breaths, squeezing his eyes shut. Tom might have sympathised with him if his shoulder wasn’t sending spasms of pain right down to the tips of his fingers. He stays hunched over on the floor, gasping quietly and keeping his eyes trained on Harry, wand gripped tight in hand.

Finally, after getting his bearings, Harry looks over at Tom but also remains where he is, leaning up against the wooden spindles of the banister. When he speaks, his voice is thick and deliberately slow, like it’s taking great effort not to slur his words together. The fall must have knocked him about more than Tom had thought.

Not that he cares.

“You don’t get to talk about any of them, not Remus, not Hermione, not the Weasleys and especially not Ginny. She knows you for exactly what you are.”

Tom rolls his jaw, “And what's that? Do so enlighten me, oh ‘Chosen One’.”

Harry looks straight at him, eyes watery with pain yet holding no mercy or lightness now, only an unwavering disdain. Tom struggles to maintain it and doesn't even contemplate diving through them to the boy's thoughts, his spine trembling just barely with something like dread.

“A murderer and a maniac in the making. Just like Voldemort-”

“I am not like him,” Tom cuts across, voice torn apart with emotion as he roars. “I will never be like him! You don’t know anything about me!”

Almost before he’s done speaking, Harry is sitting up and leaning forward, smashing his palms onto the wooden floors to make a sharp bang.

“I know everything about you!!” The words are more spit than said, shaking with pain and anger, “I know how you think, I know how you behave! And you disgust me!”

The choking feeling is back. Tom’s lungs try in vain to fill, but they feel shrunken and broken, his vision tunnels and blotches black. He staggers to his feet, using his good arm to lean against the wall.

“Fine then!” He shouts, gravely and loud. “Fine! See if I bother from now on, see if I stick around here to help!!”

Harry has reached his peak, fury and viciousness written in every piece of him. Tom had never known someone other than him who could be so relentless in their anger.

“I don’t need you! Nobody needed or wanted you here, even Voldemort cast you aside! Didn’t want you anymore, did he Riddle?”

Tom’s ears fill with white noise. Everything goes silent, like someone has stolen all of the noise from the room and left only the sounds of his treacherous heart as it stutters and shrivels with hurt.

Almost unconsciously his wand arm raises, his lips ready to form the words of the torture curse, his default defence tool when his tongue failed him. Before he has the chance to give the incantation a voice though, his wand - Harry’s old wand, somehow sensing what he was about to do, sends an influx of hot stinging sensations sinking into his skin and up through his arm. He bites back a cry, both arms now aching uncontrollably, and instead he chooses to do something he would usually never resort to.

Tom flees.

His legs carry him down the stairs as quickly as they can manage under the rioting pain his upper half is in, no sound of protest coming from the boy still splayed out behind him. Not wanting to risk the wand being temperamental again, Tom covers himself in a wandless shielding glamour then tugs the front door open.

It slams shut behind him and he doesn’t bother to glance back at the house as he half strides, half stumbles his way down the street, his eyesight oddly blurred as he goes.

Harry remains in place on the stairs for a long while, blinking every so often and attempting to fight off the nausea that rolls through him every time he so much as twitches. His head feels like one big bruise, sore and throbbing. Honestly, he wouldn’t be surprised to find himself with a concussion after the way he’d bashed his skull against the corner of the sturdy wooden step, bouncing off it so forcefully he’d half expected there to be a gush of blood to accompany it.

Small blessings.

So he breathes deeply, in through his nose and out through his mouth as steadily as he can manage, trying in vain not to follow the call of unconsciousness here on the bloody stairs, but it’s a hard task. It doesn't help that regret is already starting to creep in at his earlier words, that horrible cold hollowness that Harry always felt after he allowed his anger to burst from within of him. He hated the feeling, hated that his mind wouldn’t allow him to stay mad for as long as he felt he deserved to be, before that sickening remorse flooded in.

He was angry with Tom, angry that he’d shoved Harry about and made him leave the Weasleys, especially because he didn’t know when he would see them again, if ever… but he shouldn’t have said what he said. Harry didn’t truly believe it, not really, he’d just struck where he hoped it would hurt the boy most. Being cruel for the sake of being cruel and as a result... Tom was gone. The door had echoed as it had slammed shut, but even if it hadn’t, in the back of his pulsing mind where his magic was connected to the house, Harry had felt the disturbance of him leaving like a stone sinking under a lake, the ripples cascading at the edges of his awareness. But there was nothing he could do about it right now, not while all he could think about was the pain slamming into him with every breath.

Harry rolls himself out of his pile of misery, strangling the banister with his fists to try and heave himself up, moaning and gasping at the effort all the while. His stomach turns and cramps, his head feels fit to burst, but he gets to his unsteady feet at long last, hanging over the handrail for dear life.

“Bloody hell,” He gripes, mouth gaping wide as he draws in as much air as he can. He needs to sleep this off, needs to not be conscious for several hours while his magic hopefully rises to help him heal, seeing as he had no handy potions or spells in his knowledge to fix him up. He doubted the Episky that Dumbledore had told him about before would do much good here.

With extreme sluggishness, Harry begins the arduous journey up the second flight of stairs towards his room, pausing to bend over and squeeze his eyes shut when his vision starts to go dotty and white. Every step is torture as fatigue weighs down on him with ever pressing urgency and by the time he’s bursting through the door with a clatter, vaguely aware that the noise has sent Hedwig into surprised flapping and hooting, Harry can barely see two feet in front of him. As he throws himself down on a bed, either his or Ron’s old one, he’s not entirely sure, sleep rises up with open arms to catch him as he lands, taking him under immediately.

His dreams are full of confusing imagery, with Harry in the Department of Mysteries sitting at a table with an unfinished puzzle in front of him, but everytime he reaches for the pieces they move or disappear. Every so often a voice comes from behind him telling him to hurry up, but when Harry turns there’s no one there, only the eerie darkness of the corridors stretching out for miles and miles.

He’s glad to wake up from it, opening his eyes to a golden lit room, the setting sun casting a gentle glow over everything. He’s even more glad to sit up and feel no pain in his head, to be able to stretch and yawn and rub over his face where his glasses had dug in and left marks. There’s a chill that bites in the air so he looks up, seeing the open window he’d forgotten all about yesterday, before they’d left for Privet Drive. Was that yesterday? He casts a tempus and sees that yes, it’s still the same day, only he’d slept most of the afternoon away after what had happened earlier.

Now he’s had the chance to sleep and his head no longer feels like a balloon about to burst, Harry can’t avoid thinking about everything that has occurred in such a short amount of time. That seems to have been the theme of his days as of late, too much happening in too little time to process, leaving him flailing in the aftermath. They’d left for Privet Drive, for what should have been a quick, easy task, and instead they’d been tracked by Rebastan Lestrange and attacked, Tom had been hurt and the Order had appeared to whisk them away to safety.

Seeing his loved ones again was a balm on his aching heart, even with the heavy reminder that he’d last seen Remus and Tonks when they’d come to rescue him from the Ministry. Somehow Harry kept forgetting that it wasn’t all that long ago since Sirius had died, since hearing the Prophecy and destroying Dumbledore’s office in a fit of heartbroken rage, to now Dumbledore being gone as well - it was just too much for one person to handle. Harry hadn’t even been able to explain anything properly to Remus or the Weasleys this morning, and Tom wasn’t exactly the person to go crying to about his grief.

God, Tom… Everything was so messed up.

He should have known Tom wouldn’t react well to so many new people, especially when he was still recovering from being in isolation for fifty years, but Harry had never expected such a huge blow out. He still didn’t really understand why, everything he’d said about knowing how Tom thought and felt had been a complete over statement as he really, truly, had no idea what made the boy tick. Now, he might never get to. With no idea where Tom might have gone, or what he would choose to do now that Harry had so irreversibly turned him away, his quick temper and venomous tongue had dug his own grave, leaving him with no other choice than to lay in it.

Groaning at the disastrous turn his life had taken yet again, Harry digs his knuckles into his eye sockets again with force, cursing himself under his breath. What would happen now? He could try and contact Tom somehow, maybe write him a letter begging him to come back, as much as it would hurt his pride to do so, but would the other wizard even bother to read it?

There was no denying Tom could hold a grudge like no other. Hell, Dumbledore had wronged him once and he’d carried that hatred with him for years, so why would Harry be any different? Ridiculously, he finds his eyes burning and beginning to water as the reality sets in like a stone in his stomach. The silence of the house presses down on him like a physical presence, cloying and heavy.

“You’ve really gone and done it now,” He mutters to himself merosly, moving to swing his legs off the bed. As he does so, he catches the edge of the nightstand and sends the papers that Snape had given him fluttering onto the floor. With a sigh, Harry bends to snatch them back up again, the letter containing his OWL results, the thick wad of official papers naming him Sirius’ heir that he just did not have the heart to go through right now, and the second letter which he’d never got around to opening.

He turns it over in his lap, stilling when he recognises the swirling handwriting that had shaped his name across the page. Dumbledore’s writing… Carefully, Harry digs his thumb under the seal and pulls the letter out, heart beating madly and his breath caught in his throat as he reads.

Dearest Harry,

I hope you can forgive my fondness for theatrics when I state that if you are reading this, then I am most certainly dead. It was a fate known to me and I welcome Death like an old friend, for I am eager to be reunited with my family once more. I have lived a long and rewarding life, full of highs and lows, of love and friendship, and even of heartbreak and loss. Every emotion was a privilege to feel and I hope that the sadness and grief you feel for my death will soon pass for you, my boy, and give way to light and hope once more.

The task ahead of you will be a dangerous one, and no doubt will take you to your lowest points of hopelessness and despair, so I urge you to remember this, Harry; Love is your greatest weapon. The ‘power he knows not’ will not fail you, you must only believe that love will always be with you, will always guide you and will always triumph over dark and evil forces.

I go to my death knowing that you will do what is needed, and though it might take some time for you to see it as I do, I am glad to know that you will not be alone in your mission. Lack of love and influence led a young boy astray once before, lack of positive connection sent him into the seductive arms of power and darkness. I know you will not allow that to happen again, and as a result, give the Wizarding World a chance to thrive in peace again.

Go well, my boy, and remember; help will always be given to those who need it.

Yours most faithfully,

Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore

Underneath the name, Dumbledore has sketched a little symbol, of a triangle with a circle and a line slashed through it. Harry runs his thumb over it curiously, tears pouring down his face in rushing streams.

“I’m so sorry,” He chokes out, a cry taking up all the room in his throat, “I’ve let you down already. I’ve failed!”

He curls over and sobs into his knees, wishing Dumbledore was here to tell him what to do now. Through wet eyes he rereads one of the last sentences and cries out desperately.

“I need help! Please help me, I don’t know what to do, it’s all my fault! Please? Dumbledore? Anyone?”

Nobody answers, of course, for there is no one here to hear his pleas and sobs, no one at all besides him in a house full of haunting memories and yet none of the ghosts to go with them.

The sun has set, the room is cold and empty and Harry Potter is alone.

He stays curled up in his uncomfortable position until Hedwig flies down off the wardrobe, stopping to rest on the ball of the bedpost and knocking her talons against the metal until he finally looks up, his face still damp. When she sees Harry looking at her, she moves her wings about in agitation, clicking her beak.

“Hi Hedwig,” He says, throat sore and dry. Harry sniffles and swallows past the thickness, then tries again, “Going hunting? Try not to be seen, alright? We don’t need any more trouble right now.”

The snowy owl looks at him with slanted eyes, apparently offended at his insinuation that she couldn’t be stealthy. True, she’d never been seen in Little Whinging as far as he knows, but London was better lit and had less countryside for her to use as cover and he’d hate for anything to happen to her. He gets to his feet and follows her as she moves to the window, letting her give him a parting nip on his finger before watching her as she flies off. She does disappear into the bleak cover of night fairly quickly, he’ll give her that, but Harry watches the polluted skies for a while after she’d gone, lost in thought.

Now that she’s gone, it occurred to Harry that he could have sent her to the Weasleys with a message that he was alright. They were probably worried sick about him, after his abrupt departure and everything he’d been telling them beforehand. Sickness whirls in his middle at the thought, but he can’t risk sending a Patronus or anything so flashy, even in the middle of the night. He’ll just have to wait for Hedwig to return and try again tomorrow night.

Harry moves away from the window, pulling it shut against the cold night air, then turns to light his bedside lamp. It’s late, but he doesn’t want to sleep, doesn’t think he could even if he tried with his mind so full of worry, so he grabs his wand and leaves the bedroom instead. The halls are even eerier at night, so Harry wastes no time lighting the lamps and various candles dotted about as he makes his way down the stairs.

Occupied as he is at lighting the lamps, Harry nearly tumbles down the staircase where he’d been splayed out earlier, and he quickly has to hang onto the rail for purchase to stop himself from getting another fall induced concussion. Looking down for what had tripped him, he lets out a pleased little laugh.

“My bag!”

He couldn’t believe he’d forgotten all about it! He scoops it up and sits down on the stairs to go through it, making sure nothing had been damaged in the rough journey the bag had gone through the entire day. Everything seems fine, much to his relief. Still, Harry throws the cloak over his lap just to reassure himself that it still works, and grins when his legs disappear from view. He picks up his photo album and flips through the pages, smiling back at the faces of his parents and his friends as they wave up at him, closing it softly when he’s sure nothing is out of place.

Leaving the mirror shard in the bag for now, Harry then unfolds the Marauders Map and presses his wand to it.

“I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.”

It’s a bittersweet joy to watch the ink bloom out on the page, to watch it swirl and form into the familiar writing. He presses his finger over the bottom two names, Padfoot and Prongs, and wishes with all his heart that his dad had found Sirius again in death, that they were together again like Sirius had always wanted. The Veil that his godfather had fallen through, leaving no body behind… it’s too awful a thought to think that his soul couldn’t pass on where it was meant to.

Harry shakes his head and opens all the flaps and folds of the map out on his lap, looking it over. The corridors are just as empty as he expected, having seen for himself just how few people remained in the Castle over the summer, bar the house elves who didn’t show up on the map. Looking over the headmasters office and finding it empty of the name Albus Dumbledore, as it forever would be from now on, prompts him into muttering the counter spell and folding the map away with a heavy heart.

What a depressing thing to be sitting surrounded by the reminders of his dead loved ones, the only connection that remains of them for him to cling on to. Harry places everything back in the bag and takes it up to his room, stopping in there only to place it onto the bed before leaving again. This time, he looks upwards, towards the floors he didn’t go to as often last Summer. The third floor was entirely made up of the Master suite that previously belonged to Sirius’ parents, and then to Buckbeak who resided in the main bedroom before Mrs Weasley came along and had them clean it up. Above that, on the topmost floor other than the attic, were the rooms belonging to the two heirs, Sirius and his brother, someone Harry knew nothing about.

“Well, Harry,” He says aloud to himself, trying to shake his cloudy mood away, “might as well get this over with.”

Using only a Lumos to light his way this time, he goes past the third floor without stopping and carries on up to the top floor instead, the stairs and floorboards creaking through the cavernous house the entire way. It was more like a tomb - a house stuck in time and stagnant with the memories of the people who had passed through it, clinging to the old wallpaper and the macabre decor in a way that no cleaning charm would ever remove. Harry was already beginning to understand how Sirius had hated being shut up in here, and he didn’t know how long he’d cope on his own the same way, with no relief of people coming and going to at least stop him from spiraling into madness.

It was something he’d just have to deal with seeing as it was his fault he was alone now, anyway. Harry reaches the top of the house, this landing a great deal smaller than the lower ones. There were three doors, two either side and one right across from him which sat ajar, showing the edge of an ancient looking bathtub just beyond it. He guides his wandlight to the right door first.

A nameplate in place on the door declared the room as Sirius’. With a trembling hand, Harry pushes it open and wills his Lumos a little brighter, taking in his godfather's room for the very first time. It was spacious, as dust covered as everywhere else, and the furniture was bulky and solid to match the rest of the house. There was a fancy chandelier in the middle of the ceiling, with the half burned candles still in place, home now to the spiders who used it to spin their webs between the waxy towers.

The bedding was thrown back, trailing onto the floor like Sirius had left in a rush. Harry’s chin wobbles dangerously, so he bites down on his lip until it stings, looking over the walls instead. There were so many pictures and posters taking up every available surface that it was a struggle to even see the pattern of the wallpaper underneath, perhaps the whole point of doing so. There were banners boasting Gryffindor pride, group shots of a Quidditch team clad in blue tones, and what Harry assumes is a wizarding band screaming into floating microphones, as well as more familiar muggle singers that Harry vaguely knew off. Several large motorbike pictures took up space and dotted between them, pictures of muggle women wearing bikinis that had Harry looking away in a rush, embarrassment flooding through his cheeks.

His eyes instead land on the only moving photo amongst the whole lot, so he steps closer over the clutter on the ground to get a better look, aiming his wand in front of him. Four boys, standing arm in arm wearing matching Hogwarts uniforms, laughing at the camera and in turn, at Harry. It’s the Marauders. His dad is there, sending a spark of happiness through his heart as he takes him in, his untidy black hair sticking up just like Harry’s, and his glasses, though James Potter wore square frames as opposed to round ones like him. Next to him, larger than life and carelessly handsome, Sirius stands looking livelier and happier than Harry had ever known him to be in the few short years he’d known him. Eyes skipping quickly over Pettigrew, Harry finds Remus at the other end of the group, tired looking as usual but with none of the weight his adult self carried around with him like a physical presence on his shoulders.

He reaches up to pry it from the wall, but finds it won’t budge. Sirius must have taken a leaf out of his mother's book and used extremely strong sticking charms, for the posters and pictures to still be here even now he was gone. That thought has Harry wondering, not for the first time, why the usual shrieking portrait had not made a single sound in the entire time he had been here, making plenty of noise to upset her. Figuring Sirius’ room was only a road of misery to walk down, he decides to leave to investigate the portrait situation instead, which is when Harry trips over some of the mess on the floor, stumbling.

God but he’s clumsy these days, he grumbles to himself, looking down to make sure nothing had been damaged. There’s a handful of papers and books scattered about on the floor so he bends over to pick them up, thinking to set them down on the nearby dresser, just as he eyes catch on one of the pages full of handwriting, spying his own name. With furrowed brows, he sets the other things down and smoothes the crumpled page out.

Dear Padfoot,

Thank you thank you, for Harry’s birthday present! It was his favourite by far. One year old and already zooming along on a toy broomstick, he looked so pleased with himself, I’m enclosing a picture so you can see. You know it only rises about two feet off the ground, but he nearly killed the cat and smashed a horrible vase Petunia sent me for Christmas (no complaints there). Of course, James thought it was so funny, says he’s going to be a great Quidditch player, but we;ve had to pack away all the ornaments and make sure we don’t take our eyes off him when he gets going.
We had a very quiet birthday tea, just us and old Bathilda, who has always been sweet to us and who dotes on Harry. We were so sorry you couldn’t come, but the Order’s got to come first, and Harry’s not old enough to know it’s his birthday anyway! James is getting a bit frustrated shut up here, he tries not to show it but I can tell - also, Dumbledore’s still got his Invisibility Cloak, so no chance of little excursions. If you could visit, it would cheer him up so much. Wormy was here last weekend, I thought he seemed down, but that was probably the news about the McKinnons; I cried all evening when I heard.
Bathilda drops in most days, she's a fascinating old thing with the most amazing stories about Dumbledore, I’m not sure he’d be pleased if he knew! I don’t know how much to believe, actually, because it seems incredible that Dumbledore

The letter cuts off as it reaches the end of the page and Harry stands staring down at it in his numb hand, feeling outside of himself. This was… this letter, it had been written by his mother, by Lily.

Harry reads it again with new eyes, noticing with a jolt that she wrote her letter G the same way she did, and he searches each one out like a moth to a flame, desperate for the minuscule light of connection. Nobody ever had anything to say of his mother, nothing beyond that she was kind and that Harry had her eyes, and for the longest time all he had of her memory was the sounds of her anguished screams as Voldemort had killed her, the way she’d cried and begged for Harry to live echoing through his ears when the Dementors drew close. But now there was something tangible, something Harry could hold close to his heart and know that his mother had written it, that her hand had dashed across the page as she wrote her words, words about him, Harry, her son.

He sinks down into crouch, bowing his head and swiping his hand under his wet eyes. Again, he reads it, this time categorising each point. Sirius had bought Harry his first broom, and they’d apparently owned a cat… he wonders what happened to it after that night, if it perished as well or ran off in the aftermath. Wormy had been there and been sad, but the less said about that the better, and Bathilda had dropped by and doted on Harry… Bathilda…the name rang a bell.

Looking up in thought, trying to wrack his memory, his eyes catch on the books he’d placed on the dresser. He tilts his head, reading one of the titles.

A History of Magic written by Bathilda Bagshot.

Oh! That was it! Hermione would have his head for not connecting them straight away, but really, who could blame him? He barely paid attention to History of Magic before, and now he had failed and wouldn’t be returning to Hogwarts either way, it was not one of the subjects he’d be teaching himself in further, thank you very much.

So, he thinks, looking down at the letter again, the magical historian had been their neighbour. Strange really, to think that she had been allowed through the Fidelius when times were as dark as they were. Once again, his parents trusting nature was a point against them, though he winces and chides himself for thinking as such.

The way the letter had ended had his mind piqued with interest though. It seemed incredible that Dumbledore, what? Harry looks around Sirius’ room again at all the discarded junk and papers, wondering if the rest of the letter and the aforementioned photo were somewhere amongst the fray.

When an ‘Accio letter’ ends up with a swarm of papers flying at his face, Harry spends about half an hour digging through piles of old school assignments, papers of random doodles, pieces of textbook and sheets of what must be the early stages of making the Marauders map, going from the outline of familiar classrooms anyway, but his search brings him no closer to the rest of his mums letter. He does however, just as he was about to call it quits, come across the photo.

It was torn in half and so the only thing shown was him, a small black-haired baby, zooming in and out of the picture roaring with laughter as a pair of legs, presumably his dads, followed after him. He fingers the torn edge, wondering who could have done it, but all the same decides to place it in his pocket along with his mum's letter, before finally leaving Sirius’ room behind.

Pulling the door shut behind him, Harry shuffles to the top of the stairs, ready to sleep even if it was unsuccessful. Just before he starts his descent, he throws an idle look over at the other door, the door of Sirius’ brother, reading the sign with drooping eyes.

Then, he stops short on the top step, twisting in place to look at it fully. While Sirius’ name plate had been minimal, simply stating his first name in block lettering, this nameplate is something he’d half expect Dudley to put up, if his cousin were a bit more snobbish than brutish.

Do Not Enter Without The Express Permission of Regulus Arcturus Black

Entirely snort worthy, really, if it were not for the name attached to the claim. Regulus Arcturus Black… something about it was setting off all sorts of alarms in Harry’s mind, exhausted as he was. He mumbles the name under his breath, stepping closer to touch the lettering, feeling the indents of the wood.

All at once, it hits him.

“R.A.B!” He yells, the sound bouncing back at him off the walls, “Regulus is R.A.B, I’ve found him!”

Shockingly, the door abruptly swings open, sending Harry scrambling back with a childish scream of fright, heart galloping out of his chest. A small dark figure comes barreling out to hit upon his knees, screeching all the while.

“-dirty little heir isn’t to speak about Master Regulus, he isn’t, Kreacher won’t allow it! Nasty, nasty heir, poor Kreacher won’t obey him, won’t won’t won’t!”

Harry laughs in delirious relief, though the noise only upsets the elf even more. He seems to be trying to bash Harry’s knees in, so he finally pushes him away by his waxy head, Kreacher's spindly little arms windmilling the whole time.

“Kreacher! I didn’t realise you were still here. Have you been hiding up here this whole time?”

Kreacher bites on his lip, grumbling and grunting through his yellowed teeth instead of answering clearly.

“Kreacher,” Harry warns, though not fiercely. His heart is still recovering from the surprise of his appearance. “I know you know that I’m the heir now, which means you have to listen to me. I won’t order you outright if I can avoid it, but I’d appreciate an answer please.”

“Yes, young Master.” Kreacher eventually allows, backing away from Harry to wring his hands in his stained sheet of dress. “Kreacher never left the home of his beloved Mistress, Kreacher only was hiding when the people came and people went.”

“What people?”

“There were many faces, Kreacher does not know them all. The bearded wizard with the all seeing eyes was first, with the bat professor and others.”

So, Dumbledore and Snape? They’d likely held a final meeting here, before discarding the idea of using the house as headquarters in the aftermath of the Ministry.

Kreacher continues. “It was quiet, and then it wasn’t, and then it was quiet again. Then the bat professor returned, bringing the new young Master and his companion.”

“Right, okay then. Thank you Kreacher.” Harry says, trying to follow what the elf had said. The order had come and left, then someone else had come and left, and finally Snape had come and brought Harry and Tom with him. Was the second person also Snape, seeing as he’d come before Harry to drop his belongings off for when they arrived?

Kreacher goes as if to go back into Regulus’ room so Harry calls him back quickly.

“Um, Kreacher, you can’t lie to me anymore, right? Seeing as I'm your Master?” He cringes at referring to himself that way, but Kreacher nods at once, albeit sulkily. “Okay, good. Do you happen to know if Regulus-”

Kreacher snarls out reflexively, surprising Harry into stepping back, but the elf doesn’t move to attack him again, instead yanking on his own droopy ears.

“Do not speak of Master Regulus! Kreacher won’t talk, Kreacher won’t!”

Horrifically, the elf begins to cry, great heaving sobs that shake through his tiny frame. Harry backtracks immediately, even as frustrated as he is.

“Allright, allright, I’m sorry! Don’t cry, please don’t cry!”

Kreacher quiets down at least, snivelling loudly and blowing his nose into his sheet, soiling it further as Harry grimaces.

“Right, I’m going to bed. Don’t go anywhere, okay? I’d like to talk to you more tomorrow, about uhh.. the kitchen! Food, you know.” He says quickly, thinking up some excuse. He’ll not enjoy trying to get the elf to talk about Regulus being the potential lead to the real Horcrux, but it’ll have to be done, tears or not.

The elf looks at his sideways, like he’s the strange creature here, and nods his head.

“Yes, young Master.” Then he turns and leaves, shutting the door to Regulus’ room on Harry’s face none too quietly, leaving him in the dark hallway once more.

On his way back to his own room, Harry briefly steps into the room opposite where Tom had slept in that first and only night to collect the fake Horcrux that had been left on the bedside. Surprising really, that Tom had discarded it so easily, or maybe not so. It wasn’t the real one, after all, had no real connection to his family or to Voldemort, did not house the soul he wanted to absorb to become stronger.

At least, that’s what he had planned to do. Harry doesn’t know what Tom had planned now, if he’d go after the Horcruxes on his own or if he’d turn completely and join Voldemort’s side, just to spite Harry….

It didn’t bear thinking about. He turns the it over in his hand to warm the metal as he closes the door and crosses the hall into his own room. He places the locket, letter and photo onto the bedside table along with his wand and then swaps out the clothes that he’d been wearing for far too long for his comfortable pyjamas instead. At the last minute, Harry decides to slip the locket over his head so it rests against his chest instead, a physical reminder of the task he has ahead of him. Then, extinguishing the light and leaving the room shrouded in shadows, Harry climbs into bed and falls asleep, one hand still held loosely around the locket as he does so.

Chapter Text

The all too familiar noise of Hedwig tapping on his window rouses Harry the next morning, distant at first through the haze of dreams, then loud and insistent all at once as his mind stirs awake at last. He squints his eyes open gingerly, blinking with dopey confusion until the noise comes again.

Tap, tap, tap!

He drops his head back onto his pillow with a drawn out groan, palming his face roughly. Harry barely felt like he’d slept at all, that deep-rooted exhaustion still pressing persistently behind his eyes, attempting to drag him back under until the tapping noise came again, louder in protest at being ignored.

“Alright, alright, m’coming.” He mutters through a yawn, sitting up with another groan.

Throwing back his soft warm blanket, Harry regretfully shuffles over to the window, Hedwig nothing more than a blurry white blob in his limited vision. He unlatches it and opens it just wide enough for her to glide in over his head, then shuts it again quickly when a bitter cold wind tries to sneak in alongside her.

The sun had clearly remembered it didn’t like shining for too long in London, then. From what he could tell, the skies were gloomy and grey and the glass of his window was speckled with droplets of a visiting rain during the night, which told him there would likely be more to come. With a full body shiver, Harry quickly rummages through his chest of drawers until he lands on his thickest pair of socks, two mismatched knitted ones that Hermione had made during her mission to free the house elves of Hogwarts during their fourth year. He slips them on and wiggles his toes in relief, then swipes his jumper from the day before and shoves that on as well, walking over to stand under the wardrobe to greet Hedwig.

“Good morning, girl. Nice hunt?”

Standing on his tiptoes to reach, she lets him stroke her beak and face feathers for a while, gently nipping his fingers in return. He makes sure the bowl of water is still full before falling back on his heels to stretch his arms out above his head, yawning again. Before she can settle down fully to sleep, Harry gets the Owls attention one last time with a soft tick of his tongue, her yellow eyes slanting open to look at him.

“I’d appreciate it if you could go out for me again tonight with a letter. You can go out and hunt nearby and then take it for me when it’s really late so there’s less chance of you being seen, okay?”

Hedwig blinks slowly and coos as if in agreement, then adjusts her wings with a final rustle, ready to get her rest. Harry backs away quietly and turns to look at his own bed, half tempted to burrow back under the covers for a little bit, to soak up their leftover warmth and drift off to sleep as well.

There’s no point in putting off the day anymore though. He sighs and looks out the window again, wondering if Tom was somewhere out there in the cold or if he’d left London behind entirely. Where would he go though, if not here? He was still just a boy out of time, thrown fifty years into a future that’s completely unfamiliar to him…

That creeping feeling of regret tries to climb back into the forefront of his mind, but Harry pushes it down the best he can. He can’t dwell on any of that right now, can’t address the confusing complexity that was Tom Riddle, or how Harry felt about him leaving, so instead he turns away from the window as if to banish the very idea of Tom all together, grabbing up his glasses and wand to leave the bedroom quietly.

The house is still and silent besides the shuffling of his socks against the wooden floors as he stops off first in the bathroom, brushing his teeth and washing his face, then continuing down to the kitchen, coming to a stop in the doorway. Snape had led him through it briefly that first night here, but at the time Harry’s thoughts had been rather preoccupied with other things, and seeing it again now in the limited light straining to come through the narrow windows, he was hit all over again by how much had changed.

The last time he’d been in here was Christmas, a far from perfect time in that they were all so hesitant to partake in any festive cheer until Mr Weasley was recovered from his attack, but there had been a sense of lightness and hope all the same at just being together. Sirius had been overjoyed to have a full house for the holidays, pulling the magic crackers with the twins and roaring at the stupid jokes inside, traipsing around singing wizarding Christmas tunes at the top of his lungs, calling everyone to a toast as they’d enjoyed the marvellous roast that Mrs Weasley had cooked to perfection.

Now the kitchen was barren, dusty and cold and just as neglected as the rest of the house, never to be filled again with the chatter of his loved ones all together. Sirius would never laugh or joke here again just as Dumbledore would never sit at the head of the table to lead a meeting… An uncomfortable weight lodges itself at the base of Harry’s throat, threatening to choke him completely. He swallows past it thickly and sniffs loudly, taking his wand out to light the lamps overhead as he steps into the space proper.

Thankful at least that Mrs Weasley had given the room a thorough clean during the Summer and the Winter holidays, Harry only has to clear away the dust to get the space feeling less abandoned, which he does with a banishing spell, glad to see it work as envisioned. His stomach gurgles and groans at him, that familiar gnawing hunger cramping through his middle and making him wince. When had he last eaten? Was it breakfast with the Weasleys at the Tonks’ house, all the way back yesterday morning? No wonder he felt as if a pit was carving its way through the bottom of his stomach!

Though he highly doubts there’s anything edible left in here, Harry goes about opening each cupboard door one by one anyway, peering inside for anything to appease his poor empty stomach - but no luck. Besides the stacks of dinnerware and a few murky jars that he doesn’t want to touch, let alone open, the shelves are empty of anything to eat.

Seeing as there was nothing he could do by just standing around, he finally decides to call on Kreacher, who appears with a sharp crack almost before he’s done speaking. The elf looks up at him with his small watery eyes, a scowl already in place on his pale grey face.

“Young Master is calling for Kreacher?” He says gravelly, sounding supremely unimpressed.

“Good morning Kreacher.” Harry begins, mostly out of habit. Kreacher just looks at him oddly, much like he did the night before, and says nothing. Feeling slightly wrong footed and entirely awkward, Harry takes a breath and continues. “..Right. So, I was wondering how things worked around here before - well. Before Sirius was gone.”

Harry knew he’d need to get used to saying ‘Sirius’ and ‘dead’ in the same sentence at some point, but he doesn’t particularly want to tackle that hurdle right now. Especially not with Kreacher.

“Kreacher isn’t knowing what the foolish young Master means.”

“No need for name calling, thank you. I mean, what did Sirius do for food, or the Order?”

Kreacher’s face screws up as his voice becomes harsh and nasty, “Disgraced son of my beloved Mistress-”

Harry cuts him off at once. “Hey! I said no name calling!”

The two of them fall into a heated stare off, glaring stubbornly at each other until the elf finally lets his beady eyes fall to the floor, smacking his lips wetly before trying again, this time without the needless titles.

“Previous Master Black did not leave the top floor often unless there was being guests. Previous Master Black ate very little, though Kreacher didn’t care, and he drank a lot, making Kreacher clean away all the empty bottles before the bearded wizard came. Shameful blood-traitor.”

Kreacher whispers the last bit under his breath and though Harry still catches it, he lets it go this one time as he processes the new information, his heart panging horribly to think of how miserable Sirius must have been shut up in his childhood home, isolated and cut off, just as Harry had been in Privet Drive. The unfairness of it all strikes through him so fiercely that Harry has to fight down the urge to scream and rage all over again, about Sirius being stuck here and Harry falling for Voldemort’s trap, about Dumbledore and the prophecy, about Tom and the Horcruxes - about everything!

Counting his breaths, Harry closes his eyes and takes a moment to shove the raging sea of his emotions back into the figurative pot they had been crammed in, reminded of Snape’s snide scolding voice telling him to control your emotions, discipline your mind as he did so. A load of crap he’d thought at the time, but it’s exactly what he needs right now. There’s no time for dwelling on the mistakes he’d already made, no space in his overpacked mind to grieve Sirius and Dumbledore as they deserved just yet.

Harry needs to find these Horcruxes so that he can kill Voldemort and save everyone else. And before he can do that, he needs food. So, when he feels as close to steady as he can realistically get, Harry opens his eyes again and looks back at Kreacher, who had been watching him from a backed up position like he was a particularly volatile potion about to explode.

Not entirely inaccurate. Still, he attempts a smile that lands more as a grimace and speaks as calmly as he can manage.

“What about when Sirius was younger? Who cooked, who got the food?”

“Kreacher did.”

“Where did you get it from?”

“Mistress was sending Kreacher to the elf markets in the wizard alley.”

Huh. Harry wonders if Hermione knew such a thing existed, then quickly banishes the thought with a wince.

“Alright. How about this, would you be able to go to these markets and get me some food if I make you a list? I’ll get you some money as well.”

Harry poses it as a question, still feeling highly uncomfortable having to order someone around to do things for him. Kreacher smacks his lips again but he doesn’t immediately shoot down the suggestion, shifting about on his bony little feet as he mulls the request over.

Finally, seeming to have made up his mind, the elf nods.

“Kreacher can, young Master.”

Shoulders sagging in relief, Harry asks Kreacher to wait in the kitchen while he goes back to his room to grab his money pouch and a piece of parchment and quill to make his list. He gets all the way back downstairs and is sitting at the table before he realises with annoyance that he didn’t grab any ink.

“Ugh, forgot the ink-” He grunts, pushing up from his seat to go back upstairs just as Kreacher clicks his fingers, making an inkwell appear in front of him. The look he gives him speaks volumes much to Harry’s embarrassment, cheeks flushing warm.

“Young Master is having an empty skull,” The elf says pitifully, sounding like he was starting to feel more sorry for him more than anything else. It sends Harry chortling madly despite himself - not the first time he’d been accused of such, but he really did need to remember that he could do magic now. He had always been more inclined to just doing things by hand, perhaps down to his muggle upbringing, but now that he lived in a house with four floors he supposes he really should use the early freedom he’d been granted.

“Thanks, Kreacher.” He says with a final grin, turning to dip his quill in the ink and get started, “Okay, let me just write this quickly and then you can go.”

He tries to remember a bit of everything, Hermione and Mrs Weasley’s voices ringing in his ears telling him he’s far too thin and needs to eat more. Fruit goes on the list, as well as veggies to cook with, eggs, butter, bread and milk. Bacon, cooked chicken for sandwiches, pasta and rice, tea bags and sugar - whatever he can think of. Begrudgingly learnt as they were, Harry is somewhat glad that he knows enough about cooking from Aunt Petunia that he should be able to get by on his own without the need to ask Kreacher to do it for him. That would have felt even worse on his conscience.

Once he’s done Harry checks it over a few times, making sure there’s nothing missing before handing it off to Kreacher, then opening his money pouch that Gringotts had given to him a few years ago, the one that was directly connected to his vault which made drawing money out a lot simpler.

“How much do you need?”

“Ten Galleons, young Master.”

Harry counts ten out and hands them over, watching as Kreacher either bows or just hunches over more than usual, then pops away with a sharp crack, leaving him alone in the kitchen once more.

While he waits for Kreacher to return, Harry returns to his bedroom and finally dresses himself for the day, taking care not to make too much noise as he swaps his pyjamas for jeans and a long sleeved shirt, throwing his already warm jumper back on over the top. Maybe he should set up a proper space for Hedwig to rest in the day so that Harry won’t disturb her as much, somewhere in the attic? Something to tackle another time, he supposes.

He makes his bed up neatly and then straightens out the piles of paperwork on his bedside, pausing to reread his mum's letter and run his finger over her handwriting carefully before folding it and placing it in the drawer with the torn photo. His exam results and the letter from Dumbledore, crumpled but thankfully not stained with his tears, goes in alongside it, leaving only the thick roll of ‘official’ paperwork that Snape had left regarding his heirship title.

Perching on the edge of his bed, Harry lays it on his lap with his heart thudding loudly in his ears. Somehow reading it would make it feel more official, as silly as that sounded, seeing as it had now been nearly a whole month since Sirius had died, but there was something so final about it being in writing. Still, Harry knew he couldn’t put it off forever, so he pinches one end of the ribbon holding it all together and pulls on it until it falls out of formation, unwinding enough to allow the papers to unfurl.

Across the top of the first page is the emblem for the Ministry of Magic and underneath, along with another smaller printed emblem, the Department of Magical Law Enforcement is written in bold lettering. In slightly smaller print, another title reads Council of Magical Law. Very official, just as Harry predicted. He takes a breath and moves to the second page, this one appearing slightly older.

The Official Will and Testament of Sirius Orion Black, as witnessed by DMLE Council Member Jenkins, recorded on the 2nd of August 1980.

Sirius Orion Black, Heir to the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black, hereby names Harry James Potter, born July 31st 1980, as sole Heir and Beneficiary to the Black Family.

Council Member Jenkins observes that Sirius Orion Black is of sound body and mind and grants his will as Law, so mote it be.

Underneath are two signatures, one for presumably this Jenkins person and one for Sirius, his swooping handwriting just as over the top as he was. Harry smiles even as his eyes grow hot, brushing his thumb over the long dried ink. He turns the page over and comes across another similar sort of document, only this one was from his parents. Tears spill before he even begins to read, but he keeps the papers out of range of being dripped on and blinks them frantically away so he can read.

The Official Will and Testament of James Fleamont Potter and Lily Marie Potter (née Evans ) as witnessed by DMLE Council Member Thomas, recorded 2nd August 1980.

James Fleamont Potter and Lily Marie Potter hereby names Sirius Orion Black as Godfather and secondary guardian to their son, Harry James Potter.

James Fleamont Potter and Lily Marie Potter, hereby request that in the event of their passing, Harry James Potter is to be sent to the care of Sirius Orion Black, by rightful claim as Godfather and Guardian.

As Secondary in the event of Sirius Orion Black being unfit for Guardianship, James Fleamont Potter and Lily Marie Potter hereby name Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, by claim of Magical Guardian.

Council Member Thomas observes that James Fleamont Potter and Lily Marie Potter are of sound body and mind and grants their will as Law, so mote it be.

The signature of the council member is overlooked this time as Harry instead drinks in the sight of his parents signatures, his mums printed small and neat on the dotted line and his dad’s swooping all over the place just like Sirius’. Harry hadn’t even known their middle names until now and he commits them to memory like they’re hoarded treasure, tucking them close in the caverns of his heart. Lily Marie and James Fleamont. They sounded pretty, strong and striking all at once. Was Marie the name of Lily’s mother, Harry’s grandmother? Or was it a random choice? And Fleamont, that must surely be his Grandfather on his dad’s side?

Harry wishes he’d known more of this before, but there was also a part of him that was hesitant about being drawn in by his family line. That road only led to the reminder of how alone he was now, how his singular branch was the only one left, and he found himself putting the papers aside already, the brief joy of learning more about his parents soured by reality. What good was it to know his parent’s middle names or what their signatures looked like? It didn’t help him feel any closer to them, no amount of letters or stories would fill the space left empty by their deaths.

He stands up from his bed and swipes the tears off his face, angry and upset and feeling completely alone, when a familiar crack reaches his ears from downstairs, signaling Kreachers return.

Perfect timing.

Taking the stairs at a jog, Harry bundles back down into the kitchen, his stomach leaping in delight at the food laid out on the table already. Kreacher stands on one of the chairs surveying it all with hungry eyes.

“This is great Kreacher! Thanks so much.” Harry says as he looks at the bounty, practically drooling himself. “How was the trip, everything went okay?”

“Kreacher is having no problems.”

“Good.”

Just as he moves to begin putting things away though, Kreacher halts him by speaking again, sounding quiet and strange. It has Harry’s head lifting from where he’d been taking in the food and he sees that the elf is more solemn looking than usual. Though he’d said there were no problems, clearly something about the trip out had bothered him.

“The other elves is knowing things is changing.”

“What do you mean?” Harry asks hesitantly.

Kreacher smacks his lips in that way of his, a habit he doesn’t seem aware of. “Some elves is seeing things. Dark things, young Master. Some elves is even saying they see the dark wizard sometimes.”

Dark wizard… There could only be one.

“What did they see?”

“Bad things. Dark wizard is more powerful. More than last time.”

Kreacher seems to have reached his limit as he gulps and trembles, shaking his head and making his large ears flap about. Harry’s chest constricts, previous appetite leaving him entirely.

“Thank you for telling me, Kreacher, and for going out for me. It means a lot. Take whatever you want.”

Harry waves to the table and watches as the elf picks a few things up before leaving with a crack, not another word said between them.

The thoughts of what Kreacher had said whirl around in his mind as he goes about putting the food away, making a simple sandwich with some fruit on the side for lunch, forcing himself to eat it despite the news souring every mouthful.

Voldemort was apparently moving from house to house, dropping in on his followers like the most unwanted surprise visitor and performing ‘dark’ and ‘bad’ feats of magic, so much so that the elves had taken notice. What was he doing? How much more power had he gained between the events of Ministry when Harry had last faced him?

That train of thought has Harry suddenly realising that he hadn’t been having any visions from Voldemort for days, maybe even since that night when he was possessed. What did that mean? He was glad for the reprieve of course, but with no slipping into Voldemort's thoughts or feeling any twinges in his scar, Harry felt suddenly cut off from something he hadn’t realised he would miss. It had been an advantage and a weakness, a deadly double edged sword that Harry couldn’t trust, but for their strange connection to be dark now of all times when he needed more than ever to know what Voldemort knew had his stomach sinking even further, the bad omen of it echoing in his ears.

Dumbledore had never gotten the chance to explain why it was that Harry could see into Voldemort’s mind, why the connection didn’t seem to work the other way around, though that was a blessing. The vague idea that it was because Voldemort had accidentally given Harry some of his magic the night his parents were killed didn’t really seem to make any sense, but that was all Dumbledore had said. Perhaps he didn’t know himself and just didn’t want Harry to know that. He was the only person to have survived the spell, after all, so he doubted there were books out there about the after effects of a killing curse that didn’t kill you.

Harry stands and washes his plate in the sink distractedly, leaving it on the drainer to dry then going back upstairs. He stops off in his bedroom long enough to get a stack of blank parchment and plenty of quills and ink, then goes down to the floor below to the sitting room.

The rain has started up at last, drumming down against the window ledge is a rhythmic chorus that at least helped fill the room with some noise. The quiet was beginning to get to him, too much room for his thoughts to drift off into spirals, so Harry sets his load down on the table and goes over to the large, antique style gramophone sitting in the middle of two shelves. There’s a row of thin record sleeves, nothing he recognises so Harry selects one at random and awkwardly sets it on the plate, unfamiliar with the action having never used one before. Thankfully since it’s magical, as soon as the record is in place the needle jumps up on its own and places itself down, the sound spilling out in a low level crackling.

It’s classical, different instruments all combined together in a natural symphony, something pleasant to Harry’s ears yet not too distracting. He leaves it to play and goes over to one of the sofas, using the same banishing trick on the layer of dust before settling down.

“Okay,” He breathes, feeling the fake locket moving underneath his shirt along with his inhale, “Let’s get started.”

By the time he gives up for the day the light outside has darkened dramatically as the rain kept on pouring, and the record had replayed so many times that Harry now felt he knew it by heart. The low table in front of him as well as the sofa cushions either side of his seat are covered in pages upon pages of his scribbled writing, so many frustrated question marks and unanswered questions that he can barely make heads or tails of what he’s actually figured out.

Which.. Isn’t a lot.

He’d written down everything he could remember about what Dumbledore had said, listing the different ways that the Diary, the Ring and the fake Locket had been guarded, also drawing out a wonky sketch of the cup that he remembered from the memory of Hepzibah Smith’s house elf. The information about Voldemort working in Borgin and Burkes for ten years probably wouldn’t lead to much, but he’d written it down anyway as well as what Dumbledore had told him about Voldemort applying for the role of Defence teacher before disappearing entirely.

Other than that, Harry had no clue on where to begin theorising on the places Voldemort could have hid the other Horcruxes, or what the two unknown vessels could even be. He’d made a list of possible places, Hogwarts, Diagon Alley, Hogsmeade, but each one he slashed his quill through feeling more and more ridiculous. They were far too obvious! And how should Harry know what shiny little trinket Voldemort would pick to house his soul in, out of the millions of options from around the world?!

It was utterly maddening, completely infuriating and Harry already felt entirely out of his depth. It was only day one, officially, and the only lead he had was one that had practically been handed to him on a silver spoon, shoved in his face so blatantly that he would have been an idiot to miss it. But even though he felt completely sure that Regulus Black was the one who swapped the Lockets, Harry knew getting the truth from Kreacher would be no easy task.

But it was the only thing he could do right now.

He clears up his notes and returns them to his room, tucking them between the mattress and the bed frame for extra security. Hedwig is stirring herself awake so as he’d promised, he props the window open so she can go out and have a quick hunt before she’s sent off with his letter that he still needed to write.

A plan forms as he makes himself dinner, whipping some eggs up to make omelettes. He’ll eat his share and then take Kreacher a plate as a peace offering, then he’ll show him the fake locket and ask him if he’d ever seen Regulus with one similar. Yeah, that should work…

Hopefully.

He wolfs down his food and makes himself wash everything up before taking the still steaming plate in hand, making the journey to the top floor as nervous excitement boils through him. If he can just get Kreacher to open up, Harry wouldn’t be letting anyone down, wouldn’t be failing Dumbledore’s wishes. He needs this to work, needs to be doing more now he knows Voldemort is waging forward in his path with dangerous, unstoppable force.

On the fourth floor landing, Harry faces the sign that had given the clue away and swallows thickly as he reaches his fist out to knock.

No answer. Harry knocks again, louder this time.

“Kreacher? Are you in there?” Harry calls when there’s still no answer.

The door inches open a crack and then stops, only the end of Kreacher's long nose poking out through the gap.

“What is young Master wanting?” He asks grumpily.

“I brought you something to eat. Can I come in?”

There’s a very long, very awkward pause, filled only by Kreacher’s gross little lip smacking noises and Harry’s growing impatience. Just as he’s about to barge in anyway, the elf steps back enough for the door to open wide, looking at him through narrowed eyes as Harry steps through.

“Young Master may come in.” Kreacher mutters, none too pleased about it.

“Thanks. Here you go, it’s just an omelette, nothing fancy.”

Kreacher takes the offered plate and scurries over to one corner, picking the food up in his fingers and wolfing it down like a, well, like a creature, Harry supposes. What had the elf been eating before Harry had turned up here? Mice?

Harry shivers uncomfortably and shoves the thought away.

While Kreacher is distracted, Harry treads carefully through the shadowed room, squinting as he inspects every corner for any hints of something that could indicate where Regulus had put the real Horcrux. There’s a few bookshelves which could be a promising start, overflowing and sagging under the weight of the different coloured tomes, but on his way over to it his attention is drawn away to the wall above the messy bed.

While his godfather had plastered his walls in posters of muggle bands and women, likely as a protest against his family who hated him, his younger brother seemed more inclined towards fitting in with the rest of the Blacks, leaning into the silver and green colourings of their house. But what mostly caught Harry’s notice were the yellowed pages that turned out to be newspaper clippings. He leans over the bed so he could make them out, straining to read the old, weathered writing. When he realises they’re all about Voldemort and the details of his activities at the time, he has to fight down the instinctive nose scrunch and disdainful grimace.

Clearly Regulus had been a fan at one time to have made this makeshift shrine dedicated towards his esteemed ‘Dark Lord’, but what had changed? What had happened to make Regulus turn so drastically away from the thrall of Voldemort’s power, the pull that so many Purebloods found themselves relentlessly drawn to? Harry was missing something, an important detail to connect fact a to fact b.

A detail Kreacher might know… He looks over at the elf who seems to be occupied with licking the plate clean for any remaining morsels of taste.

..Right.

“Say, Kreacher, can I ask you something?” Harry pipes up, trying in vain to keep his tone casual. Jerking from his activity, Kreacher looks over at him, seemingly surprised that Harry was still in the room. He scowls and shuffles to his feet, discarding the plate to walk over to the bed, clinging onto the covers with his thin little fingers.

“Young Master may command Kreacher as he wishes…”

While before the idea would have had Harry cringing away, he tries to ignore the instinct, pushing through it so he can focus on what needs to be said. He dips his fingers under the neck of his shirt and grabs hold of the chain, pulling it over his head so he can hold it in hand in front of him, the locket swinging like a pendulum. At the sight of it, Kreacher squeals like a pig and shrinks back from it frantically, which is promising at least if unpleasant to listen to.

Though slightly redundant, Harry still feels the need to ask, “Have you seen this before, Kreacher?”

The elf nods, gripping onto his ears and yanking on them painfully. Harry nods in return, his heart beating madly.

“This one is a fake one, made to look like an exact replica. Did Regulus make it?”

Kreacher moans and yanks on his ears again, falling quickly into despair. Harry steps forward and asks again, firmer this time.

“Kreacher, I’m asking you if Regulus -”

“Don’t call Master by his name!!” The elf half yells and half cries, running forward to try and swipe at Harry’s knees like he had last night. He isn’t about to give up though, not now he feels closer to the truth.

“Fine! Did your previous Master make this locket, yes or no!!”

Kreacher wails and kicks, great rolling tears streaking down his face. “Kreacher won’t talk, Kreacher won’t say it!!”

“Kreacher must!” Harry joins in with the yelling, crouching down to grapple with those thin arms, stopping Kreacher from hitting out. He gives him a bit of a shake, showing him the locket again.

“What happened to the other Locket? What did your Master do with it?” He bellows, nearly shoving the necklace down Kreacher’s throat in his insistence.

“Don’t make Kreacher, don’t make Kreacher!!” The elf cries, his little chest jumping up and down in terrified bawling.

Harry loses all the breath in his lungs, falling back on his rear as the memory of Dumbledore doing the same thing attacks him, taking him right back to that dreadful cave and the potion that had killed him. He squeezes his eyes shut as his own tears reactively spill down his face, the cries of Kreacher and Dumbledore mixing together in his ears until he can’t discern the two, can’t separate the memory from reality.

Upon being released the elf backs leaps from Harry and scurries away under the bed, only the occasional hiccup interrupting the staggering silence now filling the room. With shaking hands Harry tucks the fake locket back over his head, hiding it away under his shirt once more as he realises he’d pushed too far.

He feels cold in the aftermath of his temper, leaving the room without another word and stumbling down the stairs to his bedroom in a daze. Hedwig had already returned, preening her feathers on the open window ledge and she hoots at him when he comes in. Harry doesn’t have the energy to reply, dropping himself down into a slumped over position on his bed in utter defeat.

What was wrong with him? Why did he keep having these flashes of red tinged tempers, losing his head entirely until it was too late and the damage had been dealt? Was the connection to Voldemort really gone or had it just burrowed itself deeper where Harry couldn’t find it anymore?

Had Voldemort left more of himself behind when he possessed Harry in the Ministry? Something sinister curling up in his blood waiting to strike at anything and everything?

Harry shakes his head, willing the dark thoughts to leave. It couldn’t be, it made no sense. He was just stressed, so much had been going on. It didn’t excuse his behaviour but it helped him feel less like an imposter in his own skin, unable to recognise himself.

Exhaustion crawls over him, digging its heavy fingers into every muscle and trying to lure him into falling backwards onto his bed. But he still had the letter to Ron and Hermione to write so he pushes himself up to his feet with all the energy he has left, leaning over his desk to write it out quickly and keeping it coded and vague just in case the worst should happen.

Dear Chudley Cannons fan and cat lover,

Everything is okay. I’m at Snuffles old place, completely safe, though doing things on my own now. Hope you and your families are keeping well, look out for each other.

Don’t know when I’ll be free to see you next. Thinking of you.

Love,
Little Prongs.

Harry scans the letter, wondering if it’s a little too vague… He’d rather not risk it though, and if nothing else it would give Hermione something to do, so he shoves it into an unaddressed envelope and seals it firmly closed, wishing he knew a few protection charms as well. Maybe tomorrow he’d check out the library, get a head start on polishing up his spells while he waited for the ordeal with Kreacher to pass.

“Okay Hedwig, are you ready? To the burrow and then straight back, don’t hang around for an answer, okay? And please, please be careful.” He begs, handing over the note and giving her feathers a parting caress. If she could roll her eyes she probably would have done just that, sending Harry an annoyed look before taking to the air, immediately getting lost to the cover of the rain.

At least that was in her favour, he thought, closing the window and making sure not latch it fully for when she returned.

Five days pass without any sign of Hedwig returning.

The first day he wakes up and looks over to the wardrobe, expecting Hedwig to have let herself in during the night and be sleeping off her trip already. Her usual spot is empty though and when he shoves his glasses on to look over at the window, it’s still as Harry had left it, closed but not latched, moving only slightly in the breeze.

He gets up and pads over, opening it enough to look out over the garden just in case she’d decided to land there instead for some reason, but her white feathers are nowhere to be seen, no evidence at all that she had returned. Harry closes the window and tries not to worry yet, knowing his Hedwig was as hardy as anything and would not break her silent promise to come back safely.

The day passes haltingly, Harry getting up from his attempted studying of Apparition to check the windows every few minutes, peering out at the trees across the street for any hint of white. He forces himself through his meals and his reading, the words blurring together and the food tasting of ash, and by the time night had fallen again, panic had burrowed into every corner of his mind.

Where was she? Was she hurt or worse - caught? She was so distinctive and recognisable, anyone and everyone at Hogwarts would be able to point her out in seconds and connect her to Harry. He stays awake that night with his back pressing uncomfortably into his bed frame to keep himself alert, but Hedwig doesn’t show, not that night or the night following, or even the night after that.

Each day that passes without her Harry feels himself slowly coming apart at the seams, that fragile last bit of string holding him together close to snapping completely. Instead of working on talking to Kreacher or teaching himself the things he needed to know to get through the mission left to him, Harry stays in bed and doesn’t eat, doesn’t sleep, doesn’t even move, staring blankly at the window as night and day changed in mere blinks.

It was his fault, always his fault.

Why had Harry sent Hedwig away when he knew it was dangerous for her?

But Harry never did think, did he? That’s how Sirius had ended up dead, dragged into Harry’s mess and losing his life for it, tossed through the veil into the unforgiving hands of death, never again to laugh or cry or love. Perhaps he couldn't take the blame for Dumbledore’s death directly, but Harry’s mind finds ways to blame himself anyway, feeling the weight of every death in his name like a hand around his throat, squeezing and choking him with the knowledge that it was his fault.

His parents, his godfather, Cedric and Dumbledore and now to top it all off, his loyal companion and friend Hedwig. The cloud of his grief refuses to move once Harry allows it in, sinking into every pore and cell until it’s stuck there, immovable and heavy.

Only at the close of the fifth day does a slant of light break through that darkness, bringing hope and relief with the flap of her wing and the tap of her beak. At first he almost doesn’t hear it, laying commotose on his bed where he’d been festering for hours, the fog of gloom so thick that it takes a moment for the noise to register in his ears.

When it does, Harry lifts his heavy head slowly to peer through the darkened room, half wondering if his brain had moved onto conjuring hallucinations when he sees a rumpled looking snowy owl perched on the ledge of the window. He stares through gritty eyes and opens his mouth to speak for the first time in hours, days.

“Are you real?” He croaks, unable to trust his own vision or mind. He jolts in place when she screeches loudly and whacks the glass with a vengeance, giving him the crystal clear message that yes, she was real and she wanted to be let in now!

He jumps out of bed too quickly, sending his vision tunneling into black even as he fights through it to stumble over towards her, choked up already with relieved sobs.

Before the window is even fully open Hedwig is flying straight for him, chittering and cooing and landing on his shoulder to burrow into his neck, knocking her head into his cheek as he cries and cries and cries.

“You’re okay! You’re alive, you’re okay, oh Hedwig!!”

Harry isn't ashamed of the way he weeps with all of his chest, hugging Hedwig close to him which she allows for as long as it takes for him to get his emotions back under control. Once he lets her go, she deposits a note into his hand that he hadn’t realised she was clutching, then flies over to perch on the rail of his bed, watching him as he follows and sinks down next to her. He keeps one of his fingers touching her soft feathers at all times to reassure himself that she was really here, then looks down at the paper she’d given him.

“What’s this?” He asks redundantly, more to hear the way she hoots in response, clicking at him to open it.

It’s a short letter of no address, but he recognises Hermione’s handwriting from all the editing she’s done on his homework assignments over the years. More hope blooms in his chest, but it’s short lived as he sluggishly processes the brief missive.

Don’t send Hedwig again, everyone being watched. Things have gotten worse, I’m working on a way for us to talk.
BE CAREFUL AND DON'T LEAVE THE HOUSE!!
Much love.

That was it. Though he was glad to have something off his friends, the note hadn’t filled him with much more than further deepening worry, tired eyes skimming over the writing again. What did 'gotten worse mean? How much worse, and in what way?

With dawning horror, Harry finally takes a mental step back and realises that he’d been wallowing for five full days. Anything could have happened in that time, Voldemort could have taken over the Ministry for all he knew! Everyone being watched suggested the Death Eaters were still growing in numbers and even more so in confidence, and what had he been doing while his loved ones were in trouble? Sitting around in bed practically spitting all over Dumbledore’s faith in him!

He feels sick and ashamed, weak from his days of no food and sleep. Hedwig coos and nips his finger, a reminder not to spiral away again. He gives the top of her head a stroke and then tells her to get some rest, waiting for her to fly to the wardrobe before getting to his feet once more. Two floors above him were the answers he needed, sitting guarded by a grouchy House Elf and his pointy, jabby fingers.

Harry takes the stairs with a determined force, not bothering to knock on Regulus’ door before entering. This was his house and he would go where he pleased. Kreacher sits up from his little nest in the corner with a hiss that soon halts in his throat as Harry speaks with conviction.

“This is an order, Kreacher. Tell me the truth and everything you know about the Locket and what your Master Regulus did to destroy it.”

And so at long last, tucked away on the fourth floor of Grimmauld Place and told to him through gritted teeth and a warbled voice, Harry learns about Regulus Black and his failed mission to thwart the Dark Lord for the sake of his friend, an elf.

“Blasted rain,” Tom mutters to himself, lighting another cigarette with the end of his finger and blowing the smoke out of his nostrils as he ducked closer to the brick wall. He was sick of the rain, sick of the sight of the grey sky and even greyer streets.

He was out lurking in Knockturn again just as he had been for days and days now, feeling somewhat lost in what to do with himself. After leaving the townhouse he’d turned his hurt into anger and satisfied the beast in his chest by torturing a few homeless muggles, pilfering their belongings before carrying on to the next until the haze of emotions had finally lifted, leaving him exhausted and carved out, hollow like a Halloween pumpkin.

He’d contemplated returning a few times, especially that first night when the heavens had opened, dripping down Tom’s neck in cold, slimy rivulets. But the unnamable thing in his chest was still tender and wounded, smarting from the onslaught of Harry’s harsh words.

Truthfully he hadn’t known whether he’d be able to restrain himself from ripping off the boy’s face for daring to speak to him that way, so he’d stayed away and here he still was, smoking and watching the streets, taking everything in with a disinterested stare.

The alley hasn't changed much in fifty years, Knockturn even less so, in fact the biggest difference had been that barely anyone was around during the day, everyone hiding in their homes too scared to come out. It made sneaking into the Leaky easy at least, confounding the barkeep with barely any effort and taking a room for himself when he decided to hunker down here, but the lack of footfall made the days oh so very boring.

He’d seen those twins of Harry’s one time, dropping in on their shop just long enough to put up a ‘closed until further notice’ sign, which told Tom that the overbearing mother of theirs had finally gotten her way. For a fleeting second he’d been tempted to follow, to latch onto their apparition and strike down on the unsuspecting clan of Weasels for nothing else than a bit of fun. But they left too soon and Tom had moved onto other things, scaring the hags in the alleys and breaking into Borgin and Burkes, mainly.

Just as Tom is smoking the last of his cig with lazy, heavy blinks, contemplating slipping into Muggle London again just to have something to do, to find some unsuspecting drunkard and perform his most fascinating spells, he overhears the beginnings of a scuffle somewhere behind him, faint shouts and thumps reaching the edges of his awareness.

He twists around like a shark drawn to blood, flicking the burnt end of his fag away without a second thought as he follows the sounds, the words becoming clearer the closer he gets.

“-ger’offa me you crazy bleedin’ thing!” A man is yelling, short and stubby, balding and ugly with it. Tom watches from around the corner as a house elf of all things is bettering the man’s knees, hilariously standing nearly half the height of the man.

He slouches against the wall to observe the show with amusement, but his smirk is wiped clean off when he hears what the elf is saying.

“Fletcher is stealing from Master Black! Thief, dirty, nasty, no good thief! Kreacher’s young master is sending Kreacher to bring you back at once!”

Master Black?

Could it be?

Tom straightens and creeps closer, using the cover of the shadows to approach as the two are occupied in spatting like a pair of cats.

“I ain’t going anywhere with ya! I don't even know any Master’a yours!”

“Kreacher knows Fletcher! Kreacher is seeing Fletcher come in the night and take Masters things, beloved Mistress' gloves, Miss Bella and Miss Cissy’s photos-”

The more the thing talks the more sure Tom becomes that this elf belongs to Harry, who had apparently sent it out in search of a would-be thief? He steps out of the dark and casts a Stupefy before the man can open his mouth once more, knocking him out cold and sending him on the short journey to crumple on the floor. The elf staggers back to avoid being crushed, searching around with its beady eyes until landing on Tom.

It cowers aways, shuffling back as Tom steps forward.

“Kreacher is knowing you..” It mumbles. “Master is bringing you with him before.”

Tom hums, making up his mind. His short break was over and it was time to return to his mission.

“Lovely to meet you officially,” He purrs, coming close enough to wave the unconscious form of the man into the air, pinching the edge of his tatty robe in his fingers. “Shall we return to your Master together?”

In a blink they appear in a kitchen unknown to him with an ear splitting crack, a moment later hearing the sound of a pair of footsteps thundering down wooden stairs.

“Kreacher! You’re finally back, did you find -”

Harry swings around the corner with eagerness and speed, eyes bright and a smile caught on his lips which immediately freezes in place when he sees Tom standing in front of him. The elf shuffles awkwardly but it goes ignored, green colliding on red tinged brown for the first time in nearly two weeks.

“..Tom.” Harry says, breathless and oh so surprised.

Tom grins.

“Hello Harry. Did you miss me?”

Chapter Text

There’s a pregnant pause after Tom speaks, loaded with a tension that threatens to bend and break between them as they stand staring at each other, hardly moving or breathing like they’ve been trapped in place by time itself. Tom watches Harry and Harry watches Tom, both of them silently inspecting the other and waiting for who will be the first to move, to shatter the strange bubble of stillness that they’re in.

Harry’s eyes dart over Tom, assessing him from head to toe with quick, fleeting glances, never resting on any one part of him before they’re moving on, and Tom shamelessly returns the attention, studying Harry with just as much thinly veiled frenzy. The lamps overhead wash over them with a golden glow, yet the warmth of the light does nothing to hide the sickly pallor of Harry’s skin, nor the way the shadows stretch darkly along the new hollowness of his cheeks. The whites of his eyes are bloodshot from lack of sleep and his usually roguish wild hair now lays flat and stringy, a sheen of uncleanliness to it that spoke of days without wash.

He looked like he had been undeniably unwell and something within Tom’s chest purrs with smug satisfaction at the fact, the proof that Harry did need him, that he had suffered greatly without him. Tom allows himself to luxuriate in that feeling, the last nettles of his ire dying somewhat with the knowledge, and he wants to dive into that unprotected head of Harry’s just so he can see for himself all of the ways the boy had learnt to regret defining Tom as a ‘means to an end’. He refrains just barely, watching as Harry finally decides to be the first to move, stepping out from the doorway and into the kitchen properly, all the while keeping his wide eyes trained on Tom like he’s scared to blink and find him gone.

“What are you doing here?” Harry breaches the quiet with his question, asked around a sharp inhale that catches in his throat. He swallows past it thickly and Tom watches on, eyes tracking his movements keenly. Harry had kept the long wooden table between them when he’d approached, and is now running his knuckles along the surface of it in unconscious sweeps.

Tom shrugs his shoulders, tilting his head to one side.

“I was bored.” He admits, watching as Harry’s lips turn down at the corners as he frowns, a spark of annoyance glittering in his eyes. “The streets are rather dull at the moment, or they were until I came across your house elf accosting a wizard on behalf of his ‘Master’. What better sign that it was time to return than to follow that thread of intrigue?”

It was, perhaps, an oversimplification of the time spent apart.

Yes, Tom had been bored, this future far from fun without Harry by his side. But mostly the lack of activity in the alley had just reminded Tom of the glaringly obvious reality; Voldemort was not slowing down in the slightest with his tyrannical rampage and if they had any hope of stopping him, Tom and Harry needed to be side by side, not caught up in a war of their own when there were worse odds at stake. Every edition of the Daily Prophet that he pinched solidified that realisation, every headline printed in bold a personal reminder of the time wasted to their sulking, so many hours of planning and searching lost to their fiery tempers and damned, stubborn pride.

While Tom could not claim to feel personally affected by the news of raids against Muggles or the disappearances, the evidence of his failure in thwarting Voldemort was a bitter pill to swallow. And so, the appearance of the elf in the alley had come at the perfect time, the opportunity to return to Harry handed to him in the hands of a rather scrappy house elf.

Harry finally breaks their prolonged eye contact, dropping his gaze down to the elf in question who had been standing nearby watching them with beady, narrow eyes, lingering especially long on Tom with unmasked suspicion. With his master now staring at him, the elf looks down and away, large ears flopping down to cover his face.

“Accosting?” Harry asks lightly. “Did you hit him?”

The elf looks up. “Kreacher did,” it confirms croakily. Though the elf makes a token attempt to look contrite, Kreacher, aptly named, holds none of the shame Tom would have expected to find in an house elf caught doing something it shouldn’t be.

Harry hums, considering, then says, “Good job, Kreacher.”

Tom stares at him, surprised and delighted all at once. Harry moves around the table and slips past him to stand over the man on the floor, still unconscious and splayed out in an awkward, uncomfortable looking heap. He rests his hands on his hips and pokes his toe at the man, and Tom watches with amusement as Kreacher pads over on bare, slapping feet to join Harry, glancing up at him and then resting his own hands on his hips, mirroring him like a particularly ugly duckling might copy its mother.

What an odd pair, Tom silently muses, only a little bitter about the fact that Harry had gained another admirer in their time apart, from an elf of all things. He moves to stand on Harry’s other side, keeping his own hands firmly slung in his pockets and joining the two in inspecting their sleeping guest.

“So, are you going to tell me who exactly you’ve kidnapped and why?” He voices after a while, eager to be brought into the loop.

“Well,” Harry begins, withdrawing his wand to guide the man into one of the dining chairs that Kreacher pulls out for him. Ropes burst out and wrap around the man, making sure that when he wakes he’ll have nowhere to go, much like Tom had awoken after meeting Harry for the first time. He curls his lip at the memory and shoves it aside.

“I suppose I should catch you up on a few things, if you’re here to stay,” Tom earns himself a sideways look, but Harry forges on before he can say anything in response, “I found out who R.A.B is, or was - Regulus Arcturus Black, also known as my Godfathers brother.”

“Of course,” Tom breathes, feeling foolish for not making the connection sooner. Hadn’t he stood in the tapestry room and read his name with his own two eyes? There was something else though.

“But he’s dead, he died in the late seventies.”

“How do you know that?” Harry asks. Kreacher is standing just behind his knees, glaring around them at Tom with what must be his most menacing look. Ignoring it, Tom explains.

“Before we left for your relatives home I spent some time reading over the family tapestry. I remember seeing Regulus’ name under two of my classmates, but I didn’t make the connection to R.A.B myself at the time.”

“Oh right. Wait - you knew Sirius’ parents?”

Tom nods his head, “Yes, Walburga was the year ahead of me and Orion was two behind.”

For some reason this information pleases Harry, as he grins widely for the first time since Tom stepped into the kitchen. Before he can speak however, Kreacher, who had become more agitated as Tom spoke, growls through his bared teeth as his tiny fists clench in rage

“Kreacher is knowing the smell of this magic, yes, Kreacher remembers! You is the Dark Wizard, you is killing my Master Regulus! Kreacher won’t let Dark Wizard kill Master Harry!”

Diving forward, Kreacher attaches himself to Tom’s legs and bites down hard, his nasty little teeth digging into the soft skin of his thigh. He yells out in outrage and shakes his leg attempting to throw the thing off him, but it hangs on stubbornly, painfully. Just as Tom’s magic is rearing up to shred the feral thing into tiny pieces for daring to attack him, Harry lunges forward and grabs the elf under his thin little arms, yanking him back.

“Kreacher!! Stop, stop! Tom isn’t the Dark Wizard, I promise you! Stop!”

Mercifully, the teeth let Tom go. He looks down to find teeth marks left indented into his trousers and the skin underneath, the area throbbing fiercely. Who knew what kind of nasty state the elf’s teeth were in? It could be completely diseased! Tom’s ears grow hot as his anger bubbles within him, grinding his teeth until they ache as he longs to teach the elf a lesson, to get his hands around that skinny little neck and squeeze, but Harry has sat it down on another chair and stands in the way, kneeling to be at the same height as he scolds it.

“You can’t go around biting people Kreacher, not unless I tell you to! It’s not on, do you hear me?”

The elf grumbles, “Kreacher does, young Master.”

Harry nods and stands up fully, turning to Tom.

Was that it?! His anger must be clear as day on his face, his chest heaving with panting breaths as he barely contains himself. Harry sighs wearily and rubs over his eyes with the air of someone extremely fed up.

“Kreacher, make sure our guest doesn’t go anywhere please. I’ll be back in a minute.”

With that, he nods his head at the doorway and walks out, clearly expecting Tom to follow behind. Kreacher gets off the chair and moves to stand by the unconscious man as guard, so Tom intercepts him, glaring down his nose and letting the blazing ocean of his magic envelop the elf, letting it know just how close it had come to its own destruction.

“Touch me again elf and I will hang you from the rafters by your innards.” He hisses quietly, for the elf alone to hear. It squeaks and trembles, but Tom barely has time to enjoy the reaction as Harry’s voice calls down for him.

“Tom!”

With a last threatening look, Tom moves to follow Harry’s voice up the stairs, finding the boy waiting for him at the top with a raised brow.

“I didn’t touch him.” Tom defends himself, the judgemental stare feeling slightly unfair. It was Tom who had just been chewed and mauled on, thank you.

“You rarely need to. Come on, I’ll explain properly while we get you sorted out.”

Harry leads the way up the stairs to the first floor bathroom, ushering Tom through in front of him before shutting the door behind them. It’s not an overly large room, so they’re crowded close together immediately, stepping around each other with short shuffles.

“Sit down,” Harry orders, pointing to the edge of the bath before turning around to rummage in the bathroom cabinets for something. Tom does as he’s told, stretching out his leg and peering down at the damage, the torn fabric of his trousers showing the marks left by Kreacher's teeth, marks that could very well scar.

He contemplates going back downstairs and pulling each tooth from that ruddy elf’s skull, but once again, Harry disrupts his thoughts, coming to perch beside Tom with a basket on his lap. It’s filled with bandages and other first aid necessities, nothing he’d have expected to find in a prominently wizarding household.

When he says as such, Harry only shrugs in return, fiddling with the edge of a bandage.

“I don’t know enough healing magic yet to not have the physical stuff on hand as well. You never know when you’ll need it, like right now.”

“I suppose you’re right. Well then, Healer Potter, have your way with me.”

Rolling his eyes, Harry shoves the basket into Tom’s chest for him to hold and then leans over to peer at Tom’s leg, resting his warm palm alongside the torn fabric. His heart pulses in his ears and his throat goes strangely tight, breath caught in his chest as he watches. Harry sweeps his thumb across the bare skin of his leg to access the bite marks, and Tom feels the touch like a shock through his entire body, physically jolting in place. Mistaking it for a reaction of pain, Harry mutters an apology and pulls his hand away.

“You should be alright with just an Episky.”

He pulls his wand free again and directs it at Tom’s leg, murmuring the incantation. They both watch as Tom’s skin knits itself back together, leaving nothing behind to show for the incident thankfully. With a pleased hum, Harry then repairs his trousers for him before getting to his feet and retrieving the basket from Tom’s arms, putting it away as he picks up the conversation from the kitchen once more.

“Regulus is a bit of a touchy subject, especially with Kreacher, so it’s best we have this conversation here.” Harry lifts himself up to sit on the counter so he can face Tom as he speaks, the room so small that his dangling feet brush against Tom’s stretched out legs. Neither of them move to stop the contact, lingering longer and longer with each touch.

“Regulus joined the Death Eaters when he was still in school. He was a huge fan of Voldemort, there’s newspaper clippings and everything still up in his room, so I was a bit confused as to why he would go behind his back and take his Horcrux. Kreacher had been hiding out up there the whole time and I found him the day after you left. Took a while to get the story out of him.” Tilting backwards, Harry rests the back of his head against the mirror, looking up at the ceiling as he speaks.

“I guess after Voldemort made the real Locket he wanted to make sure the protections were working properly so he asked his followers for an elf. Being young and wanting to please his Lord, Regulus offered up Kreacher. He didn’t know what Voldemort wanted him for but he ordered Kreacher to return. Voldemort fed Kreacher that potion so he could leave his Locket there, then put more in and left Kreacher for dead. Only, an order from a house elf’s master is resolute, they need to fulfil it, so Kreacher fought through the effects of the potion and came back here to Regulus.”

There’s a sour taste in the back of Tom’s mouth. “But how? The wards around the cave meant even Dumbledore couldn’t get through them by Apparating! The only reason we could was because the Fiendfyre had damaged them enough to bring them down!” Though it wasn’t he himself who had laid the wards, a part of him still felt offended to have been bested by something so simple as a house elf.

His annoyance with Kreacher only continued to grow.

Harry rolls his head to look at him, smiling ruefully. “Because Voldemort didn’t consider anything ‘below’ him as worth thinking about. House elf magic would never have crossed his mind, which is where he went wrong.”

There was an unspoken edge to Harry’s words, telling Tom that he was doing just the same as Voldemort had, undervaluing and underestimating someone just because he did not respect them. The fact was simple; Kreacher had beaten the cave, even if he’d come out damaged, and Tom could not deny that.

He sulks and pouts but nods for Harry to carry on.

“Well obviously Regulus wasn’t happy about the treatment, but even Kreacher doesn’t know if it was that act alone that changed Regulus’ mind about following Voldemort. All he said was that Regulus told him not to leave the house and went away for a while, then came back behaving unlike himself, harried, strange, not in his right mind. He ordered Kreacher to take him to the cave and then drank the potion himself, making sure Kreacher knew to switch the lockets once the potion was gone. The Inferi dragged him under, in the end.”

Harry intentionally rests the bottom of his socked foot on the bend of Tom’s knee, pressing for assurance or something as he finishes off his tale.

“Regulus ordered Kreacher to never tell anyone of what he’d done and to destroy the first locket. But he couldn’t do it because he didn’t know how, didn't know for sure what the Locket even was besides dark magic. So he suffered through his Mistress grief over Regulus’ death, then the deaths of the rest of the family, going mad trying to complete his Master’s dying wish.”

Tom thinks over everything he’d just been told, sorting out the facts separately from the feelings Harry was caught up in. Voldemort had treated an elf like dirt and, if the elf had succeeded with the task his master gave him, he would have been a Horcrux down because of that disregard. It was a sobering thought. Tom would have to make sure to tread carefully from now on, so as not to become complacent in his own powers like Voldemort had.

“So the Locket is here? Where, how didn't I sense it?” He asks finally, a current of excitement bleeding through him. The Locket, his Locket, here at last…

Or maybe not. Harry’s face scrunches up, this time with anger and frustration.

“It would have been. Kreacher kept it safe here for all these years and then after Sirius,” He cuts himself off, breathing noisily through his nose. “After Sirius died, when the Order decided using this place as headquarters would be in bad taste, a man named Mundungus Fletcher snuck in one night and stole whatever he could get his nasty, pilfering hands on, priceless family heirlooms and pictures, all of it belonging to the Black family.”

Tom stands up in one quick movement, the beast in his chest alert and ready to strike. He locks eyes with Harry, seeing the same fire growing there.

“And the Locket?” He asks, barely daring to breathe.

“Taken as well.” Harry replies just as quietly.

The rage curls and coils through him. How had Kreacher addressed the man downstairs, back in the alley when he’d been cornering him? Fletcher, he’d said. That must mean…

“I think Mr Fletcher is long overdue for his wake up call, don’t you agree?”

Tom holds his hand out in the air, an open invitation.

It didn’t fix everything between them, didn’t come close to healing the hurt they’d both inflicted, but it was at least a stepping stone in that direction. There would be time for words later, time for, eurgh, apologies and emotions. Right now though, there was work to be done and a thief to confront, and for once that thief was not Tom.

After a moment of hesitation, Harry reaches out and slides his hand in his, using it to jump down from the counter to stand on his own feet. He doesn’t let go immediately, standing palm to palm with Tom as they exchange a quick, understanding look.

Later, that look said, like a promise passed through touch alone.

“After you, dear.” Tom declares once the moment has passed, opening the door for Harry to lead the way.

When prodded awake, Fletcher flails about in the chair with panic and outrage, spitting and cowering in equal measure. Tom’s lips curl back in disgust, horrified that a piece of his soul had ever had the misfortune of being in this man’s possession.

Leading the interrogation, Harry, along with Kreacher at his side, stands in front of the thief with his wand held in hand, an obvious threat for the man to behave. Dim witted as he is though, Fletcher seems to miss it entirely, scowling at Harry even as his dirty little eyes skip about the room, his wrists twisting and pulling as he tries to get free.

“What are you playing at, Potter, setting a bleedin’ ‘ouse elf on me! Wha’ve I done, lemme go, lemme go-”

His accent is so horrifically like Tom’s own childhood accent, the dialect he grew up around and then made sure to viciously stamp out of himself through hours of practice in the privacy of his bed in Slytherin, detesting the looks he got for his ‘common tongue’. It triggers something in him now to hear it, has him stepping forward like a vampire from the shadows to hiss through his teeth in Fletcher’s face.

“Quiet, filth.”

The man baulks, the white of his eyes taking over his face as he looks at Tom with wide eyed shock. Harry elbows his ribs, a silent tell to back away and let him handle it.

“I’ve got a few questions for you, now that you’ve finally crawled out of whatever hole you were hiding in.”

Kreacher tugs on Harry’s shirt, gaining his attention. “Kreacher apologises for the delay in bringing the thief, young Master.”

“You did really well, Kreacher.” Harry reassures it quickly and the elf bows, the chain of a necklace just visible around its neck. Presumably the false Locket, given to the elf out of the kindness of Harry’s bleeding heart, no doubt.

“Thief?!” Fletcher cries, apparently a liar as well. Harry doesn’t stand for it, shoving the end of his wand in Fletcher’s face, causing him to squeak.

“When you cleaned out this house of anything valuable-” He starts, but the man clearly doesn’t know what’s good for him, as he interrupts Harry mid sentence, shaking his head of matted hair like a flea ridden dog.

“Sirius never cared about any of the junk-”

Shockingly, it is not Harry that reacts to the sentence. Instead it is Kreacher, who darts out an arm and picks up one of the shiny frying pans resting on the stove top, swinging it through the air to collide with Fletcher’s head with an echoing clang. Tom’s snort is lost under the noise of Fletcher caterwauling, screaming out in pain and yelling, all the while trying in vain to wriggle free from his confines.

“Call ‘im off, call ‘im off, ‘e should be locked up!”

Kreacher raises the pan again and only halts when Harry calls his name.

“Kreacher, that’s enough.”

“Perhaps just one more, young Master, for luck?”

Tom can’t stop the full body laugh that bursts out of him, throwing his head back as the cackles run through him despite his own dislike for Kreacher. When the feral little thing’s attention wasn’t turned on him, Tom had to admit it was highly amusing to see. Harry’s lips tug up at the corners with his own smirk, though he refuses the elf his request.

“We need him conscious, Kreacher, but keep it on hand should he need persuading.”

“Thank you, young Master.”

The elf retreats and Harry begins again, his voice dropping with the severity of the situation.

“When you stripped this house of all the valuables you could find, you took a bunch of stuff from the dresser upstairs. There was a locket there. What did you do with it?”

Tom’s mouth runs dry, his heart beating madly in his chest.

“Why? Is it valuable?” Fletcher asks, forgetting his fear for the moment.

Harry pokes him harshly with his wand again. “You’ve still got it!”

“No,” Tom realises, stepping forward again. Fletcher shrinks back from him. “He’s wondering whether he should have asked for more money for it.”

“More? That would have been effing difficult…bleedin’ gave it away, di’n’ I? No choice.”

With bated breath, Tom is the one to ask the next question.

“What do you mean, no choice?”

“I was selling me wares in Diagon Alley when they ‘it the street with a raid, yankin’ people about, throwin’ spells. Scared me ‘alf to death! So I was packing up, saving me own neck, when one of them stopped me. Saw the Locket and took a fancy to it, ‘e did. Course I gave it to ‘im! Got out of there quick n all!”

“They?” Harry asks, his face somehow going even whiter than it already was. “Who’s they?”

Fletcher looks around as if even saying it would make them appear, leaning forward to whisper.

“The Death Eaters.”

Tom’s eyes fall shut, defeat and despair rolling through him like a tidal wave. The locket was with a Death Eater, and therefore could very well have been with Voldemort himself all this time.

“Do you know who it was that took it? Anything at all to tell us their identity?” Harry half pleads, knowing the chances were slim to none. As predicted, Fletcher shakes his head.

“They all wear them bleedin’ masks don’ they? Covered head to toe in great, black robes. Only thing I remember was ‘is ring. Great, gaudy thing, expensive too no doubt.”

Turning his head sharply, Tom orders him to describe it. Fletcher does so, stumbling over himself.

“W-well it were a while ago now, urm, let’s see, there were two swords, crossing over each other, y’know. Some kinda banner, shield type shape and in the middle were a big letter N. Tha’s all I can remember, I swear!”

The breath that had been trapped in his throat finally escapes, bursting out from Tom in an audible gust. Harry peers over at him, confusion clear on his face.

“Tom? Do you know who it is?”

“Yes, I do.”

Without pause, Tom slips his own wand free and hits Fletcher in the face with a strong Stupefy before he can so much as blink, his head lolling back on the chair and leaving his mouth gaping open. Then, ignoring how Harry exclaims, telling him to stop, Tom steps forward and Obliviates the man, taking every memory of the house he was in as well as the knowledge of the Locket, lingering to make sure he had got everything. When he steps back, Harry is watching him with wide eyes, Kreacher at his side with his pan ready.

“What was that for?” Harry demands, incredulous.

“There was nothing more he could tell us, Harry, and his memory needed wiping. Elf, take him back to where you found him.”

Kreacher doesn’t move. After a moment dedicated to his own gaping, Harry finally puts his own wand away with another drawn out sigh, moving to put the nearby kettle on to boil.

“Might as well take Mundungus back, Kreacher. Thank you.”

This time the elf does as he’s told, dropping the pan to take hold of the once more unconscious man, disappearing from the kitchen with a sharp crack.

“Tea?” Harry asks, cutting through the sudden quiet. Tom voices his agreement and sits down at the table, taking the offered cup that Harry slides towards him a few minutes later. They allow the quiet to sit until their drinks are gone, which is when Harry sits forward across the table, his hands clasped together and tapping a rhythm against the wood, just as he had done earlier.

“This Death Eater then, who is it?”

“From Fletcher’s description it can only be the Lordship ring belonging to Henrik Nott, one of my classmates from Hogwarts. We shared nearly every class and he was the one who helped me track my family down. He alone knew just how much my legacy meant to me, which would explain why he would be interested in the Locket even on the off chance he didn’t know the true nature of it.”

Harry brings one hand up to his face to smooth the backs of his knuckles over his chin, looking up in contemplation.

“Nott…yeah, there’s one in my year. Theodore. Never seemed to fall in with the other would-be Death Eaters though. Always seemed to prefer sticking to the shadows.”

“As is their nature,” Tom agrees, unsurprised. “Henrik never truly fell in with the rest of my Knights, too - soft natured, I suppose. He was loyal to me, a friend, but I knew his heart was not in it like the others. Shocking, really, to know that he has stuck by Voldemort’s side all these years despite how he turned out.”

Hesitating, like he daren’t let the hope grow wings, Harry asks. “Do you think there’s a chance that he would have kept the Locket? That he hasn’t given it to Voldemort, for whatever reason?”

Tom lets out a sigh of his own and shakes his head, truly not knowing one way or another.

“I can’t be sure. He obviously still became a Death Eater and clearly he got over some of his nature to be out participating in raids, but if you say he has a son of your own age, it could be that he’s only doing so out of the need to protect him rather than any real desire to kill or torture. He could have seen the locket and kept it for any number of reasons, just as he could have handed it along to earn favour. There’s just no saying for sure, but..”

His sentence trails off and Harry, understanding, picks it up for him.

“But if there’s a chance he kept it then we need to take it.”

“Yes, we do.”

Kreacher returns at that moment with a crack, dusting his hands off in an over the top, satisfied way.

“Thief is back on the magic alley floor, young Master Harry.”

Harry snorts weakly and lowers his head until it thunks against the table.

“Thanks Kreacher.” He mutters.

Tom has been laying on his back for some hours when he hears the creak of a floorboard nearby. He’s back in the room he’d slept in that first and only night here, the mattress underneath him leagues more comfortable than the one he’d been sleeping in at the Leaky, yet his mind wouldn’t shut off, too busy repeatedly running over everything to allow him to sleep. It’s the reason he hears the door as it creaks open, the reason he can look over from the spot on the ceiling he’d been staring at to see the edge of Harry’s face peering around it.

Upon seeing Tom looking back at him, Harry attempts to back track.

“Oh, you’re awake, sorry I’ll just go-”

“Come in, Harry.” Tom says over the rambling, sitting up against his headboard as Harry steps slowly into the room. He’d left only a single candle going, so it’s difficult to see the other boy through the limited light, but Tom can tell that he’s sporting an embarrassed flush across his cheeks.

“Everything alright?” He asks when Harry makes no move to fill the silence, lingering awkwardly at the foot of the second bed.

“I was just checking if you were still here.” Harry confesses, seeming to surprise even himself with the admission as he moves instantly for the door, stammering away. “I’ll just go, don’t even know why I came in here-”

“You never answered me earlier, you know.” Tom calls out, halting the boy's movements. Harry turns at the door with a raised brow.

“Answered what?”

“If you missed me.”

Floundering, Harry looks everywhere but at the bed where Tom is watching him, his mouth opening and closing as he figures out what to say.

“I, well I..”

Tom decides to save him the trouble.

“I missed you,” He shares, knowing it was true even if he’d not allowed himself to address the entire expanse of the feeling until now. He hadn’t realised just how much he’d come to appreciate Harry’s presence at his side until he’d been turned away, the betrayal of Harry’s words stinging him to his core telling him just how deep the boy had burrowed under his skin in such a short amount of time.

It was nothing Tom had ever experienced before, no other person had ever had his emotions swinging and tearing in two, the outrage and the twice damned fondness battling for victory. It was worrying really, the depth of his emotions for someone other than himself, and at first he’d tried to kill it off, to squash it down so it was gone for good.

But Harry never left his mind, no matter how hard he tried. Whether it was the same for him though, was another question. At Harry’s silence, the shame of oversharing too much of himself begins to creep in at the edges, it's cold fingers latching tight around his neck until at last, blessedly, Harry speaks.

“Yes, I did.”

Three words, a simple admittance, yet the aching chest beast finally settles, laying down to rest as Harry’s words smooth down the last of its edges. A giddy laugh fights to break through his lips, so he rolls them under his teeth, clamping down on the ridiculous notion as Harry continues.

“You’re a git, and an arse, and your temper is awful…but so is mine. I’m sorry for what I said. I shouldn’t have, and I didn’t mean it, which makes it worse. Saying them just to be cruel… But, Tom, in my defence, you were throwing me about a lot. You gave me a concussion, throwing me down like that. So, I didn’t escape unscathed either.”

Tom sits forward, the sheets pooling in his lap. “I did?”

“You did. Here’s the part where you also apologise.”

“Of course,” Tom gets to his feet, throwing the covers aside so he can treat on careful feet through the dim room. He stops just in front of Harry and holds one palm over his heart, bowing his head a little. “I’m truly sorry that my actions resulted in you getting hurt, Harry. You have my sincerest apologies.”

“God,” Harry huffs, sounding unimpressed and yet he’s blushing furiously, “You don’t half arse anything, do you? Fine, apology accepted. Let’s agree to not let it go that far again, okay? I need what little brain I have left, thank you.”

“Agreed.”

Like earlier, Tom extends his hand, this time for a handshake. Harry takes it without pause, folding his fingers gently around Tom’s and moving their entwined hands up and down a few times, making the movements more and more exaggerated. It’s silly and they both fall into laughter, easy and companionable.

Harry draws away, still catching his breath. “We’ll talk more about the plan with Nott in the morning, yeah?”

“Yes, I’d like that. Goodnight, Harry.”

“Goodnight, Tom.”

He goes over to the door and departs with a final glance over at Tom, who stands watching him going, listening to the sounds of the floorboards creaking as Harry crosses the landing to his own bedroom. When he hears his door latch closed, Tom retreats back to his own bed and lays down, eyes falling shut as his mind finally falls quiet enough for him to slip off into sleep.

Chapter Text

“No way!”

“Harry, be reasonable-”

“You be reasonable! We’ve only just decided that we should be sticking together and now you want to go off on your own again? Not happening!”

Harry scowls over at Tom from across the kitchen with a face like thunder, standing with his arms crossed tight against his chest like he was fighting back the urge to reach out and grab Tom by the throat. The fearsome look perhaps would have been a little more intimidating if it were not for the fact that Harry was still dressed in his oversized pyjamas, his hair sleep rumpled and standing up every which way with impressive volume. As it is, Tom has to bite down on the smirk that fights to show itself when faced with the kitten thinking itself a lion, instead meeting Harry’s blazing stare with a fiery look of his own, refusing the back down.

He knows he’s in the right with this, but making Harry see that would be no easy task. He pushes his empty breakfast plate and the half empty glass of juice to the side so he can lean his elbows against the table, fingers intertwining together as he speaks.

“Things have changed drastically out there already Harry, everyday bringing reports of attacks and disappearances-”

Harry cuts him off, coming forward to plant his hands down forcefully on the table. “Which is why we need to stay together! To watch out for each other!”

“It is too risky!” Tom throws back, matching Harry’s tone. “Whereas I have the advantage of being able to walk around unnoticed and unmemorable even if I was, if anyone was to so much as see even a hint of you we’d be in big trouble! Look at what happened last time at your relatives' house! We were barely there five minutes before a Death Eater turned up!”

“That was different! They knew to look for me there, they knew the chance of me turning up there was high!”

Tom levels Harry with an extremely unimpressed look, “It wouldn’t matter where we go, Harry, you practically walk around with a big red arrow pointed at you at all times. All the disillusionment spells in the world don't seem to hide the fact that trouble follows you like a shadow. I - we can’t afford for you to be spotted. Not now.”

Harry scoffs but very pointedly doesn't deny Tom’s claim. He spins around to pace away with an irritated mutter, then turns around again with his mouth open as if to say something else. Before he can though, he cuts himself off with a cough, evidently changing his mind. Tom narrows his eyes at the strange reaction, moving to ask him what he’d been about to say, but Harry talks across him as if nothing had happened, back to leaning his hip against the table as he looks down at Tom.

“What’s so different about me being seen now as opposed to two weeks ago?” He demands, as if the very idea of being in more danger was ludicrous.

Tom purses his lips, weighing up whether he wanted to prod Harry about the strange reaction just now, but in the end letting it go with a sigh. To answer Harry’s question, he silently summons the one page of the Daily Prophet that he’d kept for himself while he was away, folded into neat little squares so he could keep it close in his pocket, the creases soft from how often he’d handled it. He hands it over and watches as Harry reads over the headline, his eyes going wide before darting down to the picture that Tom knows like the back of his hand.

WANTED FOR QUESTIONING ABOUT THE DEATH OF ALBUS DUMBLEDORE

Underneath that was a photo of Harry from before Tom had known him, standing side by side with Dumbledore on the grounds of Hogwarts with a distinctively vacant look in his eyes. Going off the appearance of his longer hair and the fact that his jaw was still slightly rounded by youth, Tom had guessed this was Harry at the end of his fourth year, when he’d won the Triwizard Tournament. He’d had barely thought twice before tearing the front page away from the rest of the Prophet before he discarded it, his fingers pressing down on the ink of the photo like he could sink right through it.

The article itself was full of mostly hearsay and speculation, the journalist by the name of Rita Skeeter completely blowing up the basic facts. The author has spun the tale of Harry and Dumbledore’s ‘scandalously close’ history and then pointedly mentioned how Harry was the last one to see Dumbledore before his ‘mysterious’ demise. Tom had wondered how she even knew that last bit, but Harry had no trouble connecting the dots.

“Snape’s told everyone it was me?” He says, voice low and flat with disbelief. His eyes darted up to Tom, shaking the paper in hand. “But Snape knows the truth, Dumbledore told him! Why has he - why would he even-”

“You probably won’t like hearing this, but that’s not the worst of it.” Tom cuts in before Harry can get too far into his spiral. The boy finally sinks down into the chair across from Tom, still clutching the article like his life depends on it.

“What’s worse than everyone in the country thinking I killed Dumbledore?”

“Well,” Tom starts, taking a moment to drain the last of his juice, “At the end of the multiple pages of sentimental drivel about Dumbledore’s life and achievements they spared a small corner for the announcement of his replacement.”

At Tom’s meaningful pause, Harry shakes his head in horror.

“Not him, please don’t tell me it’s him..”

“Headmaster Severus Snape, no doubt appointed on Voldemort’s orders, but it’s all official. The Board of Governors wished him ‘a long and prosperous career as Headmaster’.” He recites the words mockingly, the derision practically pooling on his tongue.

“It doesn’t make any sense!” Harry groans, threading his fingers through his hair and messing it up even further. “With Snape as headmaster Voldemort will have full control over Hogwarts entirely! It’s a betrayal to the Order, to Dumbledore’s legacy!”

“That’s not all,” Tom says softly, and upon receiving Harry’s despaired look in response, he begins to list them out. “The news of Dumbledore dying shook everyone up, distracting people long enough for the Death Eaters to slip in and gain full control of the Ministry and by proxy, the Daily Prophet. The article about Dumbledore was pulled, replaced by a bigger headline announcing Snape as Headmaster as well as the new rule that all attendance to Hogwarts is now mandatory.”

Harry’s face had gone pale, his still sickly complexion flattening even more until he looked as white as a sheet. He drops his hands from his hair to pull at the skin around his fingers with his teeth, tearing at them until they're sore and red.

“And what does that mean?”

“It means anyone who isn’t a child of a Death Eater is in big trouble, to put it plainly. It gives the ‘Aurors’ permission to investigate the families of any refusers, which is nothing more than a thinly veiled threat to stay in line unless you want your entire family killed.”

“Christ, that’s insane.” Harry mutters, chewing now on his nails. He mumbles around them, “It’s just an excuse to target the Muggleborns even more.”

“Yes, it is. Which brings me to my next point. The Muggleborn Registry.”

“The what?”

“The new angle they’re pulling is that Muggleborns must have stolen the magic they possess by force, and that it’s unnatural for someone without wizarding ancestry to have the magical ability they do. So they’re inviting every Muggleborn to enter a registry so they can be interviewed and if they pass, they’ll receive an official Blood Status mark on their record. If they’re of school age they’ll need that mark to be ‘allowed’ to attend.”

There’s a very long silence, filled only by Harry’s heavy breathing as his control becomes more and more unsteady. Tom can already feel the edges of his magic lapping at his own, sharp edged and ready to bite.

“What if they don’t find a ‘connection’, as they call it? What happens to them then?” He asks eventually, horror and fury coating every word.

Tom twists his ring around, smoothing his thumb over the black stone habitually before replying.

“Their wands are snapped and they’re sent to Azkaban. Another article mentioned mass Obliviation as well.”

Quick as a viper, Harry picks up Tom’s empty glass and pelts it at the tiled floor where it smashes into a thousand jagged pieces immediately, flying up and out in all directions. Evidently not finished, he picks up Tom’s plate next, then his own empty glass, each one meeting the same shattered end. Tom does nothing to stop him, only making sure to erect a shield charm so as to avoid any stray pieces of glass from hitting him, watching through it as Harry gets to his feet to storm around the rest of the kitchen, throwing things down in his whirlwind of anger.

Only when Harry makes a pained hiss and lifts his foot from the floor suddenly does Tom get up, vanishing his shield and the mess with barely a thought. He steps around the end of the table to Harry, his foot bleeding through the bottom of his sock.

“Dear me,” He tuts, pushing Harry backwards so he can sit down on his chair. “Shall I fetch your basket of goodies, Healer Potter?”

The attempt to draw Harry out from his cloud of turmoil doesn’t land fully, but it does earn him a huff and an eye roll.

“Don’t bother, it’s barely a scratch.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.” He kneels down to free Harry’s foot from the confines of his rather thin and holey sock, smoothing his thumb briefly over the knobbly bone of his ankle. Harry inhales sharply from above him, going still and quiet asTom lifts the bottom of his foot upwards so he can see.

As Harry said it’s barely a nick, the glass that made the cut thankfully nowhere to be seen, but it’s bleeding steadily.

“You’ll live.” Tom announces, slipping his wand free to bestow an Episky of his own to the cut. His ability to heal had never been very strong, too at odds with his pleasure at hurting, but for this - for Harry, his magic obeys him just fine, sealing the skin back together.

“That’s a first,” Harry mumbles. Tom vanishes the blood before rising once more, holding the sock out to its owner. Harry grabs it with a flush and bends to slip it back on, showing Tom the flushed skin on the back of his neck as he does.

The tense air from before had receded somewhat, enough to clear the fog of fury from Harry’s mind so that he can sag into the backrest of his chair with a long sigh, eyes falling shut.

“It’s completely inhumane.” He says after a while of sitting like that, opening his eyes to blink up at the ceiling like it holds the answers he desperately seeks. “How has the public not rallied against it?”

Tom shrugs his shoulders slightly, “The raids. Kidnappings, disappearances, attacks every other day. They’re not giving anyone the chance to rally or riot, and every new event kills off their hope more and more. The public is scattered, directionless. And by naming you as a would be murderer, I imagine many people lost faith in the idea of their ‘saviour’.”

“Not that there was much left to begin with, not after last year's smear campaign.” Harry says moodily, his fingers drumming a nervous rhythm against the table. “Hermione said everyone was being watched, which I take as meaning everyone associated with me. That was a few days ago now.”

His fingers go still as another realisation hits, looking at Tom in renewed horror. “Hermione - what’s going to happen to her? She won’t be safe returning to Hogwarts but she can’t not go either, her parents-”

“Have you talked to her since?” Tom asks lightly. The news that Harry had somehow been in touch with her friends whilst Tom was gone blooms like a bitter seed in his chest. Much to his relief though, Harry shakes his head in denial.

“I’ve heard nothing. I have no way of safely contacting her from my end, but she did say she was working on some way for us to talk. What if they’ve already got to her, though? What if the Ministry has already sent her to Azkaban or worse-” Harry can’t seem to finish his sentence, to voice the idea into reality.

“There’s been no news in the Prophet about the results of the Registry yet, it was only announced the other day. They’re shifting the focus onto you with the article about Dumbledore, probably to distract people from what’s happening.”

“It doesn’t mean it’s not happening though.” Harry points out, defeated. He slides the page back in front of him again, scanning over the page again until his eyes seem to get caught, snagging on something at the top.

“..Harry?” Tom questions after the silence has stretched out too long. “What is it?”

“The date on this..” He says after another minute of staring. “When did this come out?”

“Three days ago, I think.” Tom answers, completely lost. Harry sets it down again gently, a troubled look on his face.

“I missed my birthday.” He says eventually, voice quiet with something strange underneath it, though he doesn’t add anything else, only looking off into the distance with a furrow in between his brows.

Tom doesn’t reply, doesn't know what to offer in response. He’s never held much attachment to his own birthday, seeing as all it did was bring him closer to the thing he was fighting to avoid, so all he can do is wait for Harry’s mood to settle again, his own thoughts returning to the dilemma of the Locket. They’d been completely and utterly sidetracked from the topic of Tom going out on his own to find Henrik Nott and subsequently, the Horcrux.

For a moment he wonders if it was slightly counterproductive on his part to have told Harry everything, for surely all of the recent news would just make him more sure that Tom shouldn't go alone, but he ends up being surprised. Harry finally looks over at him, studying Tom’s face as he bites down on his lip unhappily.

“I think I’ll start asking Kreacher if he can go and find us a copy of the Prophet every day, just so we can stay on top of what’s going on even if none of it is good. As for Nott..”

He pauses to sigh, resignation thick on his tongue.

“What’s your plan?”

Tom grins victoriously.

The plan, however, is not as exciting in practice as it is in theory.

From what he knew before being stored in the Ring, Henrik had been on the path of becoming a Wizengamot member just as his father, his grandfather and so forth had been before him, a straightforward and guaranteed career path for many Pureblooded heirs to take. With that knowledge, and seeing as his son was not yet of age to take over for him, Tom had deduced that the best place to catch Henrik for a talk would be as he was leaving the Ministry.

“But there’s loads of entrances, how are you meant to be at each one at the same time?” Harry had asked, sounding as if he was going to change his mind and insist upon going as well.

Tom had smirked, tapping the edge of his nose. “Remember who we’re dealing with, Harry. Henrik is first and foremost a Pureblood, and I just happen to know where their private entrance is located.”

Abraxas had been the one to let that little secret slip one night, stood by the fire with Tom and a few other classmates, completely unravelled by despair about an awkward interaction with his betrothed, just days about being caught in a broom cupboard snogging some Ravenclaw girl. Tom had stood at his side, barely fighting the urge to knock the blonde haired priss backwards into the flames to give him something to really cry about, when the loose lipped Abraxas had spilled the truth.

“I’ll never be able to show my face in the Floo Chambers again! Why, I’ll have to start using the common entrances, brushing elbows with the riff raff-”

Simon Rosier who had been standing with them had jabbed his own sharp elbow into Abraxas’ soft middle, causing him to squawk and jump backwards, straying too close to the fire as a result. Just as he’d envisioned it happening in his mind seconds earlier, the ends of the boy's white blonde hair catch alight instantly and he screams his head off like a banshee, sending everyone into mayhem.

In the chaos no one remembered the slip of the tongue besides Tom, and he’d cornered one of his other weak willed classmates about it before the day was up.

A private entrance for only the families of the purest houses and blood to use, set apart from the queues for the toilets and the magical phone boxes. Tom had been incensed, disgusted and betrayed all over again by the reminder that he was kept apart from a whole side of society just because of his blood status. Harry had been just as sulky, although his reasoning was because ‘that would’ve been nice to know before cramming six people into a single phone booth’.

So he and Harry had laid out the plan, their heads bent so close together as they poured over his parchment that their hair tickled the others cheeks, and decided on this; Tom would stand opposite the courtyard from nine until five, hidden under shielding spells as he waited for either Henrik to show himself, or for a week to pass by. If it got to that point they’d have to replan their approach, but Tom feels certain that with all of the changes happening in Wizarding Britain right now, the Winzengamot are sure to call their members to a meeting at some point. Once he spots Henrik, Tom will make his approach, getting the man alone long enough for Tom to drop his shields and show his face.

“What if he doesn’t recognise you?” Harry questioned, silently pointing out the obvious fact that fifty years had passed between then and now, and not many people remember the faces of their teenage classmates.

“If it comes to that, my Knights and I had a codeword that we used before every meeting so we knew that each of us were our true selves, not someone hiding behind glamours or potions.”

Harry sniffed and rolled his eyes. “And if he doesn’t remember that? He’s well past seventy by now Tom, you can’t expect-”

“Then I’ll try something else! Don’t worry yourself over it.” He cuts across, rankled by Harry’s doubt.

The plan had been set and with time being of the essence, Tom had decided to set out that very same day to catch the evening rush, just in case. Harry had trailed behind him to the front door, that earlier worry painted across his face, still pale from whatever sickness had befallen him in their time apart.

Tom can’t say for sure if that look alone is what compelled him to do it, but before leaving he’d come to a stop in front of Harry, looming over him with those few inches of height difference. Harry had craned his neck back a little, scrunching his face in confusion.

“Tom?”

Without a word Tom had lifted Harry’s left hand, pausing for a moment when he saw the scar’s etched in the back of it.

I must not tell lies.

Though he’d burned from his very core to ask, to know, Tom had shelved the discovery for later and slipped the Ring off of his own finger to slide it onto Harry’s middle, the magic of the ring instantly adjusting so it stayed in place. The sight of it there, something of Tom’s so obviously in place on Harry’s person, soothed the itch of going without it and satisfied the unnamed beast within.

At Harry’s open mouthed look of astonishment, Tom had held onto his hand for a second longer, a small smile turning up his own lips.

“A promise. So you know that I’ll return.”

To you had gone unspoken, but heard all the same. Though the act of handing it over was like handing over a limb, his dependance on the Ring much deeper than he’d previously imagined, it had been worth it for the way Harry’s face had lightened with visible relief even as his cheeks bloomed a lovely pink, ducking his head and throwing a hasty goodbye as he rushed off down the hallway.

----

On that first day when there had been no sight of Henrik, Tom doesn’t think too hard about stopping at a random muggle cafe to smuggle away a slice of cake, presenting it to Harry upon returning with a hesitantly shared ‘Happy Birthday’.

Despite his own beliefs Henrik doesn’t show ,and by day four his already limited supply of patience is wearing paper thin.

The Prophet had not reported much besides more demands for Harry to come forward about Dumbledore, reports on the changes to the Hogwarts curriculum this coming September and the type of airy, empty drivel that clearly was written to fill out the space left by the lack of reports on what was actually happening. In discovering this, Tom had taken to swiping a few of the muggle newspapers before returning to Harry in the evenings, these ones painting a very different picture.

Large scale attacks in Manchester, Birmingham and Cardiff, each one unexplained and yet inexplicably linked. National calls for aid and safety precautions, pleas for the culprits to stop their violence and pages upon pages dedicated to the names and faces of lives lost.

Everyday that Tom returns with no news turns Harry’s lips down further and further, the bruised shadows under his eyes growing deep. He reads the papers religiously, his hands shaking around their pages until Tom has to pull them gently away, to guide his trembling fingers around cups of tea that he doesn’t drink.

On top of that, on top of the lack of Henrik and Voldemort’s ever reaching hands of terror, on day two a depressing, icy cold drizzle starts up and doesn’t stop, worsening Tom’s already dismal mood. He stares hatefully at the empty courtyard from his place across the street, freezing right down to his bone marrow even with two cloaks and additional warming charms wrapped around him.

Daydreams of returning to Grimmauld and running himself a hot bath fill his thoughts as five o’clock finally hits, the chimes of a church clock nearby signaling the end of the work day. Not long after the streets fill out with Muggles and their hastily erected umbrellas, held up against the miserable onslaught and obscuring Tom’s view to the courtyard.

It doesn’t matter much either way. Tom cranes his neck so he can see over them, but it’s only the usual handful of evening commuters that step out of the double doored building, most of them turning on their heels to apparate away from the rainfall immediately. There’s a few stragglers that stop to converse, their wands held up against the downpour, but even they disappear soon enough.

A yawn splits across his face as he turns his back on the now empty courtyard, lethargy dragging him down by his weary, aching shoulders. Another pointless day spent with nothing to show for, nothing to offer to Harry upon his return. Only the uncomfortable feeling of being damp in spite of the repelling charms he kept powered all day.

His frustrations must have been heard though, by Mother Magic herself or whatever higher power existed out there, as even before he’s finished taking his first full step in the direction of the nearest alley, Tom’s magical ‘tripwires’ all begin to blare with alarm. The fatigue vanished in an instant as he swung back around, following the calls of his magic back to the courtyard where he’d laid his traps - in this case a sensing ward keyed specifically to Henrik Nott. Low and behold, the long awaited figure of Tom’s old school friend steps out from the building, leaning generously on his walking cane as he comes down the steps and into the courtyard proper.

There’s no time to lose. Tom darts out into the fray of Muggles, disturbing their sacred rules of foot traffic to plunder right through the middle of them, using his advantage of being invisible to them to push and shove without consequence. They all go careening and falling down like bowling pins, exclaiming and clambering in confusion, but Tom isn’t paying them any mind, sights instead set on his prey that had finally come out of hiding.

His boisterous method works in his favour as all the squawking coming from the Muggles draws Henriks attention, his head lifting from where it had been trained towards the grounds to look towards the commotion. Tom fights with the constricting fabric of his multiple clouds to push his legs faster, his desperation growing as Henrik loses interest in the happenings on the street and begins to turn on his heel, magic gathering to whisk him away.

No, no, NO! Tom won’t allow it!!

Determination burning through him, Tom physically leaps across the last bit of space between them, colliding harshly against Henrik’s middle just as the spell picks them up, squeezing them together through the tight tube sensation of apparition and spitting them out on the other end. Neither of them remain on their feet, landing instead on their backs and sides with mirroring groans of pain, Henrik’s cane smacking audibly against the wooden floor of the room they’d landed in.

Henrik wheezes, coughing and spluttering up a storm even as he rolls up onto his hands and knees with surprising speed. He sets his furious eyes on Tom, who seems to have lost some of his shielding charms in the unexpected journey. Not enough to be recognised yet, but certainly enough for him to be seen as a threat.

“Who in the bloody Merlin do you think you are, boy?! I’ll have you arrested for this!”

“Now wait just a moment, give me a chance to explain myself-” Tom attempts to cajole, but Henrik has already snatched the handle of his wand from inside his robes, pointing it straight at Tom.

“Explain it to the Aurors. Stupefy!”

Tom’s own wand in his palm in a flash, slashing up a shield at the last moment as his feet jump backwards. He nearly trips on the hems of his two cloaks, wobbling precariously and catching Henrik’s binding spell around one shoulder. Thankfully not his wand arm, but still a bother to throw off at the same time as blocking attacks.

His frustration mounts, bubbling over until he lashes his magic out with a yell, the force of it sending Henrik flying onto the floor again and shattering the last of his illusion charms.

“That is enough!” He spits, falling into his mother tongue just to get the man to listen.

As predicted, Henrik falters from where he’d been struggling back to his feet, his lined face going pale with horror.

“M-my Lord? Please forgive me, I-I didn’t know you had returned so soon!”

The man moves into a knelt bow, his frame trembling with either fear or the after effects of being thrown down. Tom uses the reprieve to gather himself back under control, breathing deeply until his mind feels calm enough to correct Henrik’s assumptions.

“I am not your Lord. Though as you can see for yourself, I am Tom Riddle. Please rise, my old friend. I won’t hurt you as long as you return that courtesy to me.”

He wordlessly summons Henrik’s cane from its place discarded on the floor and walks over to offer it to the elderly man as he gets to his feet unsteady, reaching out for the aid like a lifeline. All the while his gaze jumps across Tom’s face, down the slope of his nose and the angle of his chin, like he’s recommitting his every feature to memory.

Tom studies him in return. Though Witches and Wizards aged differently to Muggles, it was clear to see the fifty years that set him and Henrik apart by the streaks of grey and white hairs painted through dark brown, by the lines and creases of his face pulling tight as he winces in pain, shuffling on his feet.

“You’ve aged.” Tom says needlessly, wondering if he should summon a chair for the man. Henrik huff’s with afront, sweeping one last look at him from head to toe before turning away.

“You haven’t. I suppose you had better follow me, then.”

They leave the room they’d crash landed in, walking down the corridor beyond it until they come to another room, this one boasting plush looking sofas and armchairs. Henrik lowers himself gradually into what must be his preferred seat and Tom follows suit, sinking into the middle of the sofa opposite.

It’s quiet for a time, Tom allowing the other to catch his breath back from their impromptu duel and gather his thoughts. He looks around the room they’re in while he waits, cataloguing the decor choices and paintings on the wall, all of them depicting fierce sea scapes, their waves jagged and rough.

At last Henrik sits forward in his seat with a sigh. “Sooty!” He calls out, the crack of a house elf sounding a moment later.

It looks at its master with eyes big and dark, as dark as its namesake. “Master is calling for Sooty?”

“Bring a tea service for two, will you? And a Pepper-Up from the supply as well.”

The elf pops away and Henrik sets his sights on Tom once more, green eyes narrowing minutely. He can’t help but think how the colour of them falls utterly short compared to the voraciousness of Harry’s own, but he pushes that thought aside as the elf returns, tea tray held in hand. Sooty sets it down on the table between them and then hands over the vial of Pepper-Up to Henrik, who takes it and dismisses the elf soon after.

“So,” Henrik begins, not sounding as exhausted as before although he’s still on guard as he sets about adding sugar and milk into his tea. Tom does the same, making sure to discreetly check for tampering as the man continues. “You’re Tom Riddle, are you? Funny that, seeing as he’s meant to be off somewhere in Eastern Europe right now.”

Eastern Europe? Voldemort wasn’t in the country? Tom files that piece of information away for later, perplexing as it is.

“Like I said before, I’m not your Lord. Not in that sense. I’m from…the past. From fifty years ago, in fact.”

“Really?” Henrik deadpans, “You expect me to believe that? Travelling more than a day is already practically unheard of, but time travelling forward? It’s impossible.”

“What is Magic if not the ability to achieve just that? There is nothing outside the realm of possibility, nothing. I sit here now as testament to that, though I can’t go into the specifics.”

“Of course not.” The man mutters, stopping to take a sip of his tea. “If not how, then why? Why are you here fifty years in the future?”

Tom drinks from his own cup, watching over the rim of it as he weighs up what to say. Eventually, he settles on the truth.

“I’m here to stop my future self before there’s nothing left of Wizarding society to recover.”

Henrik lowers the cup from where’s been lifting it to take another drink, his hand halting in mid air. “Stop?”

Tom clarifies. “I’m here to kill him.”

The teacup clatters against its saucer as Henrik sets it down, a tremble starting up in his fingers. The tension that had begun to leave his shoulders comes slamming back in as he holds himself carefully still.

“I see. You must know I can’t allow you to go forth with that plan, Tom. I’m bound by my Lord to-”

“To what, Henrik?” Tom cuts in, waving his hand as if to physically swipe away the drivel spilling from his downturned lips, “To kill and maim in his name, to destroy and pillage and leave nothing behind, all for a man without any sense of morality left? It’s Muggles and Muggleborns now, but he won’t stop there. Your usefulness will end and he’ll kill you as well, leaving only himself on top of the heap of bodies left in his wake.”

As he’d spoken, Henrik had begun to shake his head, not in denial, but in desperation. He looks around the room with paranoia.

“You can’t speak like this!” He hisses at Tom, leaning forward with urgency. “He’d have both of our heads for even entertaining this type of talk! What would you have me do, Tom? It's not exactly a group you can just leave!”

Tom tilts his chin up defiantly. “And your son? You’d leave him to grow up in a world under his reign?”

Henrik jumps up to his feet to jab his finger at Tom, shouting so fiercely that spit flies off in all directions.

“DON’T you mention my son!! Everything I do is for him, to keep him out of this! You don’t know the lengths I’d go to save him from this life, this curse. The curse of him and you!” The momentary fight seems to leave as quick as it came, leaving Henrik to collapse back down into his chair, burying his face in his hands.

His next words are muffled from behind the cover of them. “Malfoy’s boy has already been chosen as the first to be branded at the end of the summer and it won’t be long until the Dark Lord is calling for all the other’s his age to come forward as well...”

“If only you had something to bargain with. To offer in place of his servitude.” Tom says softly, the pieces falling together in his mind.

Voldemort was out of the country, perhaps he had been for a few weeks, leaving his lackeys in charge of causing chaos while he’s away. It would explain why Henrik had taken an interest in the Locket, knowing enough of Tom’s history to think handing it over would earn him the favour of his son’s freedom. If Henrik had done that, however, Tom doesn’t think gratitude or beneficence would’ve been Voldemort’s first emotion at being handed his own Horcrux, mysteriously not in the hiding place he’d left it.

In some ways, Henrik had dodged a very dangerous curse by biding his time and keeping the Locket. And of course, it works in Tom’s favour. Henrik stops his storm of defeated mutterings to unfold from his hunched over position, looking around like a cornered animal.

“..I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.” He hedges, completely unconvincing.

Tom’s brow arches. “No?” Sitting forward in his own seat, he attempts to catch Henrik’s suddenly avoidant gaze, the heat of his gaze surely scorching. “Nothing at all coming to mind? How about I help jog your memory, then? The Locket you obtained through a deplorable wizard by the name of Mundungus Fletcher.”

Henrik’s facade cracks in an instant. “How do you even know about that?” he sighs, sagging even further into his chair.

Tom scoffs. “I have my ways. Do you know its significance to me? To him?”

“It holds the mark of Slytherin. When I saw it that day I knew that for sure, but it- I don’t know, it felt much different than I expected. I intended to give it to the Dark Lord in exchange for Theodore’s freedom, but he left for Europe before I had the chance.”

Tom sits forward in his seat, eagerness itching at his fingertips. “So what did you do with it?”

Henrik runs a hand through his hair, his eyes gaining a far off look. When he answers, his voice cracks and shakes, burdened by the weight of the Horcruxes' influence.

“I had to lock it away. It’s like nothing I’ve ever experienced before, something so dark and malicious. Even behind layers of wards and protections I could still feel the heaviness of it, hanging over me like a dark cloud, fighting to be let out. I’ve been unable to sleep, the-the nightmares, a voice just like his, so angry and volatile, hissing through my every thought-”

The piece of soul in the Locket must be just as furious as Tom was at being locked away, shut behind wards without access to outside magic, nothing to grab on to sustain itself.

Tom doubles down, so close now to his goal.

“I can free you of it, old friend. I know how to handle the power of it, for it is my power, my spell.”

My soul.

Henrik looks up, aghast. “Your spell?”

Well, not his in a strictest sense, but not entirely untrue either. Tom weighs up how much to share to get Henrik to see the importance of handing the Locket over to him without inviting too many questions.

“It’s a defence mechanism, something I discovered to assure my rule was never ending. It’s how he survived all those years ago after - Potter. How he returned. And it’s why I’m here; to collect them and destroy them, so I can destroy him for good.”

And so that Tom can take Voldemort’s place and do it better.

They fall back into silence, Sooty returning after a while to top up their tea pot. Tom drinks another cup of sugar sweetened tea while he waits for Henrik to come to his conclusion, biting down on the soft skin of his cheek to stop him from lashing out impatiently. He can’t rush him, not while he's inside the man’s house where he has complete control of the wards. It wouldn’t do to be chucked out before he’s got what he came for.

At last the man sits forward in his chair again, setting his empty cup down and leveling his tired eyes at Tom.

“I’ll send Theodore away for the rest of the summer, to his mother. He should be safe there.” He rasps, sounding like every one of his years. “And I’ll give you the Locket, but that’s all. I won’t be your spy or your ‘man on the inside’. We go our separate ways after this.”

Tom tilts his head in agreement even as loss of opportunity stings. Having someone in Voldemort’s ranks would have been useful, but gaining the Locket was more important right now.

“Deal.”

“Tom!”

Harry launches himself at Tom before he’s even fully through the doorway, nearly sending the both of them tumbling down the front steps of Grimmauld if it were not for his quick reaction, hanging on to the door handle with a white knuckled grip as his other hand instinctively comes up to cradle Harry’s back.

Harry is…hugging him.

His arms are wrapped around Tom’s shoulders, his face buried into the curve of his neck as he fists both hands in the folds of his cloak. Tom’s mind goes blank, his ears strangely fuzzy, and Harry’s next words sound strangely far away as he brings his head back up to speak them.

“It’s been hours! Where have you been? I don’t care about the risks anymore, you’re not going out alone tomorrow, do you hear me?!”

Tom coughs slightly, his skin buzzing with energy as he moves to finally shut the door, beyond thankful that they’re shielded from view behind the Fidelius. Harry backs up enough to let him but doesn’t go far, still holding tight to Tom’s arm. He finds himself just as reluctant to part, his palm moving round to rest firmly at Harry’s waist.

Glinting, green eyes stare up at him, a single brow raising when Tom doesn’t answer his barked question quick enough. Tom clears his throat.

“That won’t be necessary, Harry.” He starts, only to be cut off by Harry puffing up even more, completely indignant.

“Listen here, you-”

“-Because!” Tom raises his voice, his spare hand reaching into his pocket. “The Locket is right here.”

Quieting from his outrage, Harry’s mouth drops in surprise as he looks down at the Horcrux, the true Locket, resting in Tom’s palm at last. He’d placed it in a bubble of wards for travelling so it’s silent for now, but a trickle of that dense, pitch magic still manages to stubbornly leak out just as Henrik described.

“You’ve got it.” Harry states disbelieving, like he never thought the day would come.

Tom’s heart drums with triumph. “I do, indeed. Come on, I’ll tell you everything that happened this evening.”

He slides his arm down so that his fingers can weave through Harry’s own, using his hold to pull them off in the direction of the kitchen. The table is littered with books and papers from Harry’s studying which he’d been doing to distract himself while Tom was out each day. His first focus was on Apparition, supposedly having asked Kreacher to help him, though the elf is nowhere in sight as the two settle side by side at the table, Harry pushing their chairs close together so that they’re pressed thigh to thigh.

Tom feels warm all over and he realises he's not shed his two cloaks at the door as he usually did. He stands to do so now, having to let go of Harry’s hand who mumbles in complaint, at least until Tom sits down once more and takes it again, that is, folding their palms flush against each other. He’s never been so touch inclined before, but the need to be close to Harry, that mysterious pull he’d felt since meeting him… Tom doesn’t feel like fighting it.

Face dusting with delightful colour, Harry looks at Tom expectedly.

“Well? What happened?”

He recaps the events of the evening, earning a groan of dismay when he tells Harry about throwing himself into Henrik’s apparition, and a contemplative look when he shares the information of Voldemort being overseas. Half way through Harry gently lets go of his hand so he can move around the kitchen, dishing out bowls full of rich, hot soup for them both, as well as some buttered bread on the side.

When Tom gets to the part about the Malfoy heir receiving the mark at the end of summer, and Henrik’s fear of his son receiving it as well, Harry frowns into his spoonful of soup, finishing his mouthful before speaking.

“I would’ve thought he’d be more selective about who he ties to himself like that. What are a bunch of teenagers going to do, marked or not?”

“Maybe he intends for it to set them apart in the hierarchy of the new school system.” Tom suggests.

Harry shrugs his shoulders. “Maybe. What happened next?”

“He insinuated that he’d been keeping the Locket to trade in for his son’ exemption to the mark, which would likely have ended up in his death had he gotten that far, as well as giving our mission away. Henrik clearly disliked having it in his house, the Horcruxes' power was too much on his mind and in the end he gave it up pretty easily.”

“And now here it is.” Harry breathes, looking over at the hovering necklace still trapped in its ward bubble, the metal catching in the candle light and gleaming with menace.

“Here it is.” Tom echoes.

“It doesn’t seem very happy.”

“It’ll be even less so tomorrow when I perform the ritual.”

The Locket seems to vibrate with barely contained fury, clearly able to understand what they’re saying. It was strong, much stronger than he’d previously estimated which has him feeling a little apprehensive for his task ahead. But Tom was the bigger soul piece of the two of them and the fact that he had a physical body meant his magic and core were stable. He’d persevere over the smaller shard no matter how enraged it was, and then they’d be one step closer to killing Voldemort.

Victory was the only option.

Chapter Text

The next morning, after a restless night full of tossing and turning and then a rushed through breakfast, Harry finds himself slumped back against the wall of what was previously known as the treasury room, arms crossed and holding in his fourth yawn in as many minutes as he switches between watching the two other occupants of the room, Tom and Kreacher.

The former had already blasted away every last speck of dust and grime from the room and was now using a piece of white chalk, although where he got it from Harry isn’t sure, to draw out a large circle onto the wooden floorboards, sweeping his arm out in graceful arches to connect each stroke. When Harry got a little bit too fixated on the way his shirt shifted and clung to his back, he averted his gaze to Kreacher instead, watching the elf for a handful of heavy blinks before inevitably being drawn back to watching Tom, and the cycle repeated.

When Tom had declared his need for an entire free room for the ritual, the first one that came to mind was this one. It was right next door to Harry’s own and housed only a few bulky old wooden cabinets, each one fit to burst of old Black family heirlooms, each item unlikely to have been touched in at least the last two decades. He vaguely remembers Mrs Weasley attempting to move her cleaning rampage into here as well last summer, only for Kreacher to have stood guarding the door like a strange, hairless little yap dog, snapping at anyone who tried to get in.

It was that memory that spurred Harry into airily suggesting that perhaps Kreacher should move all the stuff from the treasury into Regulus’ old room, so that none of it would get damaged in the process of their ritual. Kreacher was soon to agree, jumping up and trotting off ahead of Harry and Tom to get started. Clearly having caught on to his slightly manipulative tactic, Tom had smirked at him over his cup of tea as the elf had left in a near skip, which warmed Harry through much more than his own drink was.

It was exactly what the elf was doing now, carefully pulling everything from each cabinet one by one, hovering them in the air with his magic as he scuttled away up the stairs and then coming back for more. It kept him happy and also gave them more room to work with, so it was a win-win situation.

Kreacher goes out of the room once more, a line of plates and trophies floating along behind him this time, leaving Harry’s eyes free to wander back over to Tom, who had now moved on to drawing out little markings and symbols, runes presumably, here and there around his circle. They must make sense to him as he nods to himself after he’s drawn each one, a pleased little grin on his lips, but it’s completely lost on Harry.

It all just looks like random shapes and numbers to him.

“Are you going to explain what it is you’re doing or am I just going into this whole thing blind? More blind than I usually am, that is.” He asks from his watching place.

Tom finishes his last marking and stands up, looking around at his work as he dusts the white chalk dust off his fingers. He then looks over at Harry with gleaming eyes.

“The specifics would be wasted on you, my dear Harry. You didn’t take Ancient Runes or Arithmancy as your electives and I fear that this is far from beginner friendly. Just trust I know what I’m doing. Now, I just need some candles.”

He draws his wand and casts an Accio, a second later no less than fifteen candles all zooming in from various places around the house, followed by the loud clatter and bangs of the mess left at their sudden departure.

Harry levels Tom with an unimpressed look. “You’re cleaning up the mess that just made.”

“Of course.” Tom assures emptily, already turning away.

Walking back around his circle, he stops at his markings and deposits the candles, leaving some spots with multiple and others with none, all of them remaining unlit for the moment. At the same time Kreacher seems to finish his sweep of the room, leaving with the cabinets themselves all floating behind him, the room now well and truly bare.

“Wonderful,” Tom declares as he also takes in the newly empty space. “Time for the finishing touch.”

Tom goes out of the room for a second, striding back across the landing to his own room and coming back with the Locket hovering in front of him, still enclosed in its warded prison bubble from last night. Even from across the room Harry can feel the weight of it, the inky dark tendrils of its magic straining to get free and wreak havoc and mayhem. Tom sets it down with a careful guiding hand until it’s resting on a specific set of runes that had been drawn within the circle, stepping back a few paces once it’s settled.

He straightens his shoulders, wand held firmly in hand. “It’s time. Go wait outside, Harry, and I’ll call you in when it’s done.”

Harry almost doesn't catch it, a strange high-pitched shrill ringing through his ears as he stares down at the Locket on the floor, transfixed. When the words finally do register though, Harry yanks his gaze away from the Horcrux to glare at Tom indignantly.

“What?! I’m not waiting outside!” He argues, striding forward to make his point clearer. Tom halts him by resting his hands on Harry’s shoulders, trying to walk him back towards the door with an infuriatingly condescending smile.

“Now Harry-”

“You can’t just shut me out-”

“-Harry.” Tom repeats with a sigh. “I need total concentration for this to work. That means no distractions of any kind, which you will be if you’re standing hovering over me like a worried hen. It’s nothing against you, I assure you.”

Harry scoffs, “I won’t be a distraction! I’ll stay over there in the corner, and I’ll be quiet, you won’t even notice me-”

“I always notice you.” Tom cuts across, his lips curving up at the corners with a genuine smile now as Harry’s reply instantly dies on his tongue with a choke. Trying to cover his blunder, his eyes drop down, only to get caught on the shape of Tom’s mouth. He quickly looks up again as it grows with smugness.

“Well,” Harry starts, coughing to clear his throat, “What if something goes wrong and you need help?”

“If that impossible event should occur, I’ll call for you. Stay outside, please Harry? For me?”

Harry doesn’t really trust Tom in his egotistical declaration. Impossible things seemed to have a habit of happening when Harry was around, but as he goes to point that fact out to him, Tom brings up his free hand to move some of Harry’s hair away from his face, tucking it behind his ear with cool fingers and effectively distracting him. Harry allows it for a second, knowing he’s being played completely, then pulls away to scowl as fiercely as he can manage when his face feels so warm.

“Alright, alright. I’m going. But you’ll call me if you need help!”

“Of course,” Tom ushers Harry towards the doorway, nodding his head indulgently. Harry digs his heels in at the threshold, turning to look earnestly back at Tom before he can close the door.

“I mean it, Tom.” He repeats firmly, catching Tom’s gaze and holding it so the other could see just how serious he is.

“I know.” Tom gives Harry a more reassuring nod and moves his hand to the door. “Off you go now.”

Harry steps backwards out of the doorway so Tom can close it, shutting him out gently yet resolutely. He stands staring at the wood of the door for a long moment, straining to listen for Tom to start the ritual, but the only noise from beyond is his footsteps receding from the door and then nothing, like he’s just standing still. Maybe he’s rechecking his symbols…

“I can see your shadow under the door, Harry.” Tom calls out suddenly, clearly amused as Harry jumps in surprise.

With a loud grumble of annoyance he retreats, stomping away on overloud feet just to get the point across that he’s leaving. He doesn't go far though, stopping only half way between the door he’s just left and the one to his bedroom, sliding down the wall to sit down cross legged on the floor and wait, although for how long was anyone’s guess.

The feel of Tom’s magic washes over him then as he evidently begins the ritual, the power rushing through him with laps of warmth like he’s sitting in a slant of sunlight. Harry tilts his head to listen, just about catching the murmured tone of Tom beginning to chant something.

Though he didn’t take Ancient Runes or anything like that, he still wishes he’d been allowed to stay and watch, not just out of worry but also curiosity. What did taking back a piece of your soul entail anyway? Harry thinks back to his third year when he first came across Dementors - they took souls by kissing whoever it was they had their nasty, ghoulish hands on…

Would Tom need to kiss the Locket? Is that why he didn’t want Harry in there?

Harry sniggers at the thought and looks down in his lap, gaze snagging on the glint of the ring still in place on his finger. It hadn’t occurred to him last night to give it back now that Tom wouldn’t be going out alone anymore, and part of him hopes that Tom forgets to ask as well...Harry smooths his thumb across the black stone, a helpless, giddy grin fighting to paint itself across his face as he thought back to receiving it.

It wasn’t just that the gesture was nice, although it definitely was, it was what the ring meant to Tom and what it meant that he handed it over to Harry. The ring was Tom’s lifeline, his only way of surviving for fifty years, his literal soul, and he’d handed it over to Harry like it was nothing, just to put his mind at ease.

It was selfless, genuine, kind, everything he’d once never considered Tom Riddle capable of being, and yet… When Tom had left that day Harry had sat on the stairs just staring down at it, holding his hand close to his chest as his heart raced and raced and raced. Then if that wasn’t enough, for Tom to return just hours after with a slice of cake for his birthday, obviously having picked up on how unhappy Harry had been about missing it…

It was almost too much to cope with. Harry’s walls were well and truly crumbling, if they’d even been that strong in the first place. It hadn’t taken long for him to fall into an easy enough companionship with Tom after all, exploring Hogwarts together and joking around, even despite knowing and seeing how he was still capable of being cruel and vicious.

There had been low points of course, everything about the cave and Dumbledore, their fight following the trip to the Weasleys, but there had been good moments too. Tom had taken Harry back to the Dursleys without needing much persuasion, he had led Harry through London when he’d been reeling after leaving Dumbledore, he’d kept that page from the Daily Prophet with a picture of Harry when he’d not kept any other.

Harry cared for Tom, more than he was rationally ready to acknowledge right now, but clearly Tom cared for Harry too. He imagined the feeling was new to both of them, but especially Tom, who for all Harry knew, had never had actual friends outside of people he saw primarily as ‘followers’ before. Though that only had Harry wondering if he’d ever had any other kind of relationship…

Coming out of his thoughts, Harry physically shakes himself, trying to push that line of thinking out of his mind for later. He stretches his legs out in front of him and rocks his feet together, just beginning to contemplate whether he should actually go and return to his apparition lessons while he waited, when he hears what might be a gasp coming from the ritual room, before it’s cut off and followed by a loud thump.

Harry sits forward as his heart skips a beat, the magic he’d been feeling up until now like a gentle breeze rippling as something disturbs it. He waits for half a beat, straining to hear over his own shallow breathing for Tom to call his name, for him to go back to chanting, anything to tell Harry the disruption was nothing to worry about.

Instead he hears a shout, pained and struggling, and Harry is on his feet without a second thought, bounding over to the door and throwing it open so boisterously that it bangs against the wall with a resounding whack.

“Tom! Are you okay? What’s-”

Now it’s Harry’s turn to gasp, cutting himself off as he registers what’s in front of him, his eyes going wide and his jaw dropping.

Dark eyes look back at him. Not one pair, but two.

Deja vu hits him like a bludger, the sight of the second Tom who is slightly transparent and blurry around the edges taking him right back to the Chamber, right back to the very first time Harry faced down a version of Tom Riddle. This Tom is a little older than both that Tom and his Tom, looking over at Harry from his place within the circle with a rageful, frenzied look to him, his lips pulled back into a snarl.

“Look who it is.” He spits, and now that Harry is looking more closely he can see that this Tom’s eyes are far more red tinted than they are brown, closer to the menacing red colour of Voldemort’s that night in the graveyard.

It sends a cold shiver down his spine to see just how much further Tom had fallen from sanity in between creating the Ring and the Locket, just how far he’d travelled into darkness.

Harry doesn’t reply, looking away from the crazed Locket Tom to his Tom instead. He’s bent over at the waist as if in pain, gripping his chest with a white knuckled fist as it rises and falls sporadically, panting with exertion. Harry takes a step towards him automatically, only to be stopped as Tom finally looks up, throwing his arm out when he sees him approaching.

“Don’t cross the ritual line.” He barks through his laboured breathing, eyes tight at the edges as he looks over at the other Tom.

The Tom from the Locket prowls the edge of the circle like a caged Lion, which Harry can now see is lit up with magic, a faint shimmery sort of wall in place around the two of them. As the visage of the Locket moves though, even Harry without having much experience with things like this can tell that it’s wavering, something upsetting the power Tom is fighting to put into it.

Or someone.

Evidently the Locket was just as powerful as Harry had feared, fueled by his own time kept in limbo and his teetering levels of rage, using Tom’s magic to become visible which is disrupting the ritual process. If he kept it up there was no saying what might happen; would his Tom go back into the Ring on Harry’s finger, or worse, would the Locket absorb his soul instead of the other way around and take over his physical body?

Harry desperately searches for some solution, something to help Tom overpower the Locket just as the ghostly form of him stops right in front of where Harry had frozen at the ward line. His hateful gaze pierces into Harry, stabbing into him with the same uncomfortable weight that the Locket had carried, just as cold and unnerving, like he saw right through Harry’s skin to the skeleton underneath, parasitic.

“I know your magic,” He croons, just as soft and sibilant as his future self could be, false and rotten down to the core. “I’ve felt it before, haven’t I Harry? Your hands have held me, cradled me only briefly, but even then I knew you would make the perfect prey. Your core is strong, heady, ideal for me to use for myself. Let’s see if I was correct, shall we?”

“Like hell, Riddle!” Harry spits just as Locket Tom darts forward, attempting to crash through the wall of magic to grab at Harry. He skips back reflectively, relieved when the wall of magic holds.

The Locket hits it head on and the chalk lines flare even brighter in response as his Tom finally recovers enough to push more of himself into them, to keep the Locket contained and away from Harry. Tom starts to chant in a language that Harry doesn’t recognise, the symbols and candles all around them blazing with magic as they’re reactivated.

Locket Tom throws his head back and cackles gleefully, abandoning Harry for now to turn on his counterpart.

“You are too weak!” He drawls mockingly, crowding up to where Tom is still standing hunched over, getting right up in his face as all Harry can do is watch. “You’ll never match up to me, to the level of my power! You’re nothing but a child thinking himself a God. I am the only God here, and I’ll take your body as my own and give the rotten filth of today someone to really worship!”

Tom buckles as the Locket leeches more magic from him, slamming down to his knees even as he grits his teeth and keeps chanting. Harry looks around in a panic, wishing he knew what to do to help, to shut the Locket up for good.

With a warped sneer slapped across his face, Locket Tom towers over his younger self, looking down his nose with derision. “And the first thing I’ll do once I take over your physical body? I’ll give your dear Harry something to really scream about. After I’ve had my fun with him, of course.”

He looks back at Harry with a nasty, suggestive leer. Harry swallows back his repulsion, seeing the way Tom is beginning to tremble with both exhaustion and spitting rage at the insinuation, glaring up at the Locket Tom in front of him with scornful, flashing eyes.

Looking around the bare room, searching helplessly for anything that could tell him what to do, Harry feels a strange nudge in the back of his mind, steering his attention down to the floor again where the symbols are all flickering as Tom’s magic wanes. Some strange, silent urge - his gut instinct or something else, guides him like a firm hand on his shoulder to kneel on the floor as well, intuitively placing his palms flush against the wooden floorboards.

Eye’s falling closed, Harry lets that unnamed feeling guide him into drawing his magic up inside himself, trying to push it out of his palms and into the house itself, seeing as it was keyed to his magic through the wardstone. If he could just borrow some of it back for a bit to lend to Tom, they might be able to get through the ritual and get the soul out of the Locket for good.

He pushes with all of his will, pleading for it to work, for the magic of the house to hear him.

Please work, please work, please work!

The entire room shakes.

The wave of pure energy that comes flooding through him nearly drowns Harry, his vision blacking out under the pressure that starts in his palms and courses through every cell, his very blood. It can’t just be his magic he’s borrowing, more like an amalgamation of every member of the Black family that put their magic into the stone before him, stock piled to aid their descendants in events like this.

It’s nothing he’s ever felt before, like being in the eye of a storm and yet completely safe, cradled by the hands of the people before him. Like a family.

Locket Tom seems to suddenly choke and Harry finally looks up through wet lashes to see him grasping at his throat as his eyes bulge out, fingers scrambling as if he’s being physically strangled as the image of his form blinks rapidly in and out of sight, like a t.v with a bad connection. Harry grins, sharp and victorious, and pours more of his magic into the connection, the house doubling it tenfold.

Tom finds his feet just as the Locket loses his, hunching over to hack and cough. Now fully distracted from his spiel of pretentious drivel, Tom begins his chants again, shouting louder and louder as the Locket begins to shriek in agony.

“I WON’T GO!! YOU WON’T TAKE ME!!”

He’s fallen into parseltongue, thrashing around just like the snake he is as Tom seems to reach his peak. Harry tries to keep up, but the louder the two Tom’s get the more his head begins to bang like a drum, that high pitched noise from before returning with a vengeance and deafening Harry so that he doesn't hear it when Tom finishes his chants. He feels it though, the way the room completely whites out with a flash like lightning, blinding Harry into squeezing his eyes shut tight, his scar giving a sharp throb of pain at the same time. Panting into the floor beneath him, the air seems to hang heavy over him for a moment before breaking, the grips of magic finally pulling back as the tension leaks out of the room like a sigh of relief.

It takes him a long time of just breathing deeply before Harry feels steady enough to move, every limb feeling jittery and shaken, knees weak like a new born lambs as he tries to stand. Tom is splayed out on his side on the floor unmoving, so Harry gives himself a good shake and gets himself up, stumbling over the circle line now that it’s back to being simple white chalk marks. The Locket lays still and silent at last, nothing more now than an old, gaudy necklace.

Harry ignores it, hovering over Tom. His chest is still moving so he’s only unconscious, but when Harry tries to shake him awake he doesn’t respond.

“Wake up Tom! Tom? Can you hear me?” Harry calls, his own voice scratchy like it was him yelling chants at the top of his voice.

Still unresponsive, Harry staggers back over to where he’d left his wand on the floor before returning to his side, thinking that a re-enervating charm will finally wake him. The spell doesn’t even leave his lips though before he feels a sharp stinging in his chest, his core still tender from being overused. He slumps over next to Tom with a tired sigh, fighting to stay awake himself now that the excitement has passed.

He only looks up when he hears a creak of the floor at the doorway, the edge of Kreacher's long nose just peeking around the edge of it.

“Master Harry?” Kreacher asks hesitantly, wringing his hands and smacking his lips. “Kreacher was feeling the magic of the house...”

“Yeah, sorry about that, Kreacher. Everything’s fine. I could use your help though.”

The elf comes closer, edging around the chalk lines and clutching the fake locket hung around his neck protectively when he sees the real one on the floor. Harry had given it to him after getting Regulus’ story out of him, and Kreacher had seemed to forget his usual grumpiness with Harry ever since then, which was a plus. They’d both come round to each other a lot more since then.

“What is master Harry needing?”

“I can’t use my magic at the minute but Tom needs lifting and putting in his bed. If you could move him there for me, that’d be a big help.”

Kreacher nods easily, snapping his fingers so Tom raises up off the floor instantly, then leading him out the same way he’d done to all of his things from earlier. Harry pushes himself up once more, stepping over to the Locket on heavy feet.

It’s cool in his hand but it warms quickly, just like a regular necklace would do. Everything they had gone through to get this, the cave with Dumbledore, stalking down Henrik Nott for the real one after finding the fake one, Tom very nearly being defeated by it..

And now it was harmless. A piece of Voldemort taken back to make Tom stronger, and to bring his future version that one shard closer to death. All he can hope is that the remaining Horcruxes won’t put up as much of a fight as this one had.

Despite his bone deep exhaustion and the concern for Tom's unconscious state, Harry lets himself relax at last, a portion of the weight lifted from his shoulders.

He pockets the Locket and leaves the room, following Kreacher to Tom’s room.

There’s nothing much to do besides wait for Tom to wake up naturally. Kreacher can’t wake him and even after resting himself and feeling his magic settle again, none of Harry’s spells result in anything more than a twitch.

He tries not to worry too much, checking on him every few hours and using the free time to return to the studying he’d been doing last week, namely his studies on trying to achieve Apparition. Harry reads over his chapters with all the diligence of Hermione during exam season, and on the evening of the second day of waiting for Tom to wake, he and Kreacher clear the table and chairs out of the kitchen to free up some space for him to finally put his studies in practice.

Using the same chalk as Tom had in the ritual room, Kreacher draws out two shakey circles on opposite ends of the long kitchen before sitting down on a stool off to the side, swinging his little bare feet joyfully.

“Okay, Harry,” He says aloud to himself, hyping himself up. “You’ve got this. Three simple steps, it’ll be easy! Destination, Determination and..”

He trails off, stumped. What was that last one again?

“Deliberation, master Harry.” Kreacher pipes up.

“Right, yeah. Deliberation.” Harry pauses. “Whatever that means.”

He stares steadily at the circle across from the one he’s standing in, trying with all his will to imagine himself on that side of the kitchen.

Destination.

He thinks about how much he wants it, how desperately he needs the freedom of knowing he can apparate should he need to, especially given that they now need to get on with finding the rest of the Horcruxes. He doesn’t expect the rest of them to just be sitting in the hands of Tom’s old school pals, waiting for them to turn up for tea and a chat. Tom could apparate yes, but Harry can’t always rely on him. What if they got separated? He needs to be able to do this.

Determination.

...Harry tried to remember how the books described the final point, deliberation. Turn on the spot keeping the first two points in mind, something something, feel your way into nothingness?

Harry shakes his head and refocuses.

Destination. Determination. Deliberation.

He will appear in the other circle.

As quick and as graceful as he can manage, Harry turns on his heel with his eyes squeezed tightly shut, clenching everything from his shoulders to his toes as he waits to hear the crack to signal he’d done it.

There’s nothing. He opens his eyes and finds himself looking at the wall behind him, having not moved an inch.

“Ugh.”

When Harry turns back around the first thing he sees is Kreacher, who had apparently summoned a quill and a piece of parchment from somewhere and proceeded to write out in very shaky lettering ‘mastur Hary’, along the top. Underneath that, with Harry as his witness, Kreacher strikes the quill tip down in one bold, black line, a single inky talley marking his attempt.

Or more accurately, his failure. When Kreacher looks back at Harry’s astonished and offended face, he simply cackles and swings his feet even harder, obviously having the time of his life.

“Very funny Kreacher. I’ll get it, just you wait.” Harry declares mulishly, starting his process again.

By the time he calls it quits that night, Harry has lost count of how many strikes there are on Kreacher's page and has only managed to move an inch inside the circle he started in. He stomps off up the stairs with Kreacher’s crow-like laughter following after him, telling himself it’s time to check on Tom’s condition and not just him rushing away from his embarrassing failed attempts.

Tom finally wakes the following evening, nearly three full days after the events in the room across the hall.

Harry had gone in just as he’d done the nights before, dropping by Tom’s room before going to his own for the night. Tonight though his reawakening worry had driven him to perching gingerly on the edge of Tom’s bed, reaching out to hold one of Tom’s hands in his own, feeling for his pulse with the tips of his fingers just to reassure himself.

When he looks up from doing so, he sees Tom watching him through sleep heavy eyes, bleary and hazy but awake all the same.

“Hey you.” He breathes, barely daring to speak. It takes another few blinks for Tom to finally keep his eyes open properly, moving his head against his pillow to look around.

“What am I doing in here?” Tom croaks, voice dry from being unused.

“You passed out after finishing the ritual,” Harry explains, summoning a glass for Tom from downstairs and filling it with an Aguamenti. Regretfully Tom has to free his hand from under Harry’s so he can use it to shift himself up against his pillows, reaching out for the glass once he’s settled. “I brought you in here when nothing would wake you up. It’s been three days, near enough.”

Tom drains his glass, “And the Locket?”

“I put it on your bedside along with your wand.”

Harry watches him set the empty glass down and pick up the necklace, coiling the chain around his fingers and tracing the shape of the serpent on the front. He stays quiet and after a bit Harry clears his throat, drawing his attention again.

“How do you feel? Now that the soul is back, I mean?”

One of those pale hands raise to his chest, rubbing his knuckles up and down over his sternum as he looks away, eyes visibly clouded as he slips into his thoughts.

“Like I’ve been hit with a thousand Stupefy’s all at once,” Tom murmurs at last. “I can’t find the words to describe it, exactly. It’s - heavy. That’s all I can really say.”

“I see.” Harry says, though he doesn’t really. But it must not be an easy thing to describe, gaining back something that was never really meant to be gone. Is there any way to describe a soul anyway, to someone who’s never had theirs break?

Tom inhales noisily, eyelids falling shut once more. “There’s something else too. I can see the memories that the Locket held, from leaving the Ring under the shack right up until being put into the Locket itself. But they’re strange, blurry, more like recalling a painting I’ve seen or a book I’ve read than recalling any of my own memories, which are sharper and clearer.”

“Is that a good thing?” Harry hesitantly voices, a sense of apprehension clawing up his spine. If the Locket had left its impression on Tom, would each Horcrux do the same thing? The more Horcruxes Voldemort had made, the madder he became - would Tom begin to follow as well?

Was it inevitable that he should?

Tom speaks again, cutting Harry’s spiral short.

“I think so. I can see the miserable hours that Tom spent wasting away in Borgin and Burkes, barely making enough money to live on. But I can also see the plans he’d had for the future, his ambitions for the next two Horcruxes.”

Harry sits up, attention piqued. “Two?”

After the Locket, they had highly suspected that the Hufflepuff Cup could be a Horcrux, but they didn't know enough to be absolutely certain. To have that confirmed was a good thing, in the very least.

Tom sits forward in the bed, reaching out for Harry’s hand again, interlocking their fingers to keep them together. It feels just the same as before, that same swell of something warming in his chest every time he and Tom touch. That reminder sets him at ease once more.

This is his Tom, and the Locket nor any of the others to follow after would ever change that.

“Hufflepuff’s Cup is definitely one, Voldemort made the Locket only moments before the Cup, both of them created at virtually the same time. Though from what I can sense it was only the Locket that he held such elaborate plans of protection for, likely because of its origin and connection to the Slytherin line.”

“So we know the Cup for sure, just not where.”

Tom nods. “But that’s not all. I theorised it myself when we were at the Tonks’ house, even back when we were still at Hogwarts, but now I know it for sure. Voldemort continued his trend with wanting pieces of Hogwarts History to hold his soul, and he’d set his sights on the lost Diadem of Rowena Ravenclaw as his next Horcrux.”

“What’s a Diadem?” Harry can’t help but ask, only for Tom to shrug his shoulders indifferently.

“Like a tiara, or a crown. That’s not the point.”

“Sorry. So, it was lost? Where was it?”

“That’s just it - nobody ever knew. Its disappearance and the story behind it was legend, so much so that hardly anyone even believed there had ever been a Diadem in the first place.”

Harry frowns at Tom’s excited ramblings. “That doesn’t exactly sound good for us, Tom.”

“Let me finish. Do you remember what Dumbledore said, about Voldemort choosing to travel after killing Hepzibah Smith and stealing the Locket and the Cup?” At Harry’s nod, Tom continues. “He said that Voldemort was known to have travelled to the magical communities all over the world - Egypt, Italy, Albania. The last known or ‘rumoured’ known place that the Diadem was seen was in Albania, lost in the depths of the forest there and forgotten to time.”

“You think Voldemort found it?” Harry tries to keep the doubt from his voice, but he’s sure some of it must leak through and Tom gives him a half offended look.

“Yes, Harry, I do believe he did. Nothing would have stopped him from wanting to be the one to find it, to steal it for himself and defile its legend with his own, dark magic.”

Harry frowns unhappily, “So we need to go to Albania, is that what you’re saying? How on earth are we-”

“No, dear Harry,” Tom halts him, smiling far too cheerfully for the situation. “Voldemort will not have kept it there, Dumbledore theorised this as well. Though he wanted them hidden, he wanted them close. It’ll be here somewhere, in Britain.”

“That doesn’t exactly narrow it down.”

“No, it doesn’t.” Tom shrugs, his hair flying about his head in charming, messy curls that Harry has never really seen before. It makes him look younger somehow. Personal. “But at least it’s not a forest in Albania.”

“There is that.” Harry allows, exasperated yet smiling through it all the same, Tom mirroring him as they both begin to chuckle.

If nothing else it did at least bring them up to knowing two more Horcruxes, which left only one unknown one for them to find. Their mission had already lightened somewhat with the Locket being taken care of, and though he shouldn’t allow himself to be, Harry couldn’t help feeling a slither more optimistic about their chances from now on.

Chapter Text

Everything was white.

Blinding, unending, shapeless.

Harry has no idea where he is or how it was that he came to be here. His feet are stuck in place and no matter how much he moves his lips, no sound breaks free. All he can do is stand in the nothingness, for minutes or maybe hours, it’s impossible to discern.

Then, in a single blink, a figure appears on the horizon.

Like a shocking stain of ink spilt across pale parchment, the figure stands out from the whiteness, obvious and unavoidable. It doesn’t move to come closer, but Harry can feel the weight of it gaze upon him like pin pricks of ice, goosebumps raising along the bare skin of his arms.

Strangely though, Harry doesn’t feel afraid. He looks back at the figure, hoping and wishing they will approach, desperate to see them, to know them.

The figure doesn’t move and Harry is still stuck.

Suddenly he’s distracted by what sounds like whispering coming from behind him, faint and barely there like the voices are carried on a wind. Harry twists his neck to look, only to find nobody there. Just the same white void, expanding ever outwards into infinity.

When he turns around again, the figure is gone.

Harry is alone.

He comes awake gradually, lazily floating back up to the surface of consciousness until he’s blinking his eyes open groggily, greeted by the cracked paint of his ceiling and the weak rays of summer sunlight fighting to break through the persistent grey drizzle. The remnants of the dream linger, leaving Harry just as confused as ever.

It had been a few weeks since they’d started, though he can’t remember exactly when that had been. There hasn’t been a single night without them yet though, usually the last thing he’d dream of before waking up for the day, like a parting gift from his mind to leave him all the more puzzled.

At first Harry had suspected Voldemort to be behind them, seeing as all he’d done over the last year was send him confusing and repetitive dreams, but those dreams and the dreams of the white space feel vastly different.

For one, he doesn’t wake up terrified with his heart racing, his skin slick and cold with sweat as that horrific sense of wrongness coils under his skin like a parasite, leaving his scar to ache and bleed. Though the recent dreams flood his thoughts with questions and confusion, they never leave him feeling unsettled or afraid, so Harry had tentatively ruled Voldemort out as a cause, at least for now.

Harry sits up with a yawn, stretching out the stiffness of his shoulders and back before staggering up to his feet, forgoing his glasses for a quick trip to the bathroom on the floor below. He brushes his teeth slowly, methodically, squinting at his blurred reflection in the mirror.

His hair had grown completely out of hand, more than he’d initially realised, and it was now long enough to fall down past his ears where it sat tickling at the skin of his neck and shoulders. It reminds him of how Sirius’ hair used to be, though in his Godfather’s case long hair had looked purposeful and at least suited his face. On himself, Harry felt it was clearly obvious that his hair was only long because he’d neglected to cut it, his pale face lost in the sea of dark waves framing it, odd tufts of hair sticking up and outwards like he’d got into a fist fight with a hedge and lost.

It was well overdue for a cut. He tries to tuck and smooth some of the strands back behind his ears as he bends to rinse his mouth, but they just spring right back into place with gleeful stubbornness. Maybe it was worth asking Kreacher at some point to help him cut it, though the thought of the elf anywhere near Harry’s head with a pair of scissors only has him breaking out into cold shivers of dread. Yeah, maybe not. He’d be better off just trying to do it himself, or at least asking Tom.

With that thought, Harry leaves the bathroom behind to traipse back up the stairs, crossing over the landing to knock on Tom’s door with three quick raps of his knuckles.

“Come in.” Tom's voice calls out, muffled slightly through the wood. Harry swings the door open, and stops short again barely two steps in.

Glasses or not, it’s not hard to see that the room has been struck with jumbled mayhem. The dark patterned wallpaper on the far wall is now barely visible, covered up nearly completely with multiple pieces of parchment, all held up with sticking charms and collaged together to create an impressive tableau. The spare bed across from Tom’s own is also covered, and the boy himself is in the process of adding more things onto the wall, barely looking over at Harry where he’s stood gaping in the doorway.

“I see you’ve been busy.” he says faintly. Just how long had Tom been awake for? Harry watches the back of him, already dressed for the day and muttering to himself as he flits between different parts of the wall.

The scene reminds him so starkly of those crappy American detective shows that Dudley used to watch that Harry has to hold back a snort. All Tom needs to complete it are those pieces of red string connecting everything, and maybe a cup of coffee that’s been left to go cold. He swallows his smile and steps closer, squinting and trying to make sense of what’s written.

Tom begins to explain helpfully once he sees just how close Harry’s face needs to be to actually make out the words properly. He points to different sections of his wall, gesturing widely.

“I’ve noted down everything we know about each Horcrux so far, even the ones that have been taken care of already. There’s no saying for sure if Voldemort will have kept increasing the levels of protection around each one as he went, or if the Locket was just a unique case. So I’ve made a list of how each one was stored. The Diary for instance was entrusted to Abraxas or his son at some point, so there’s a chance that Voldemort could have done the same with another Knight or Death Eater.”

Harry hums doubtfully, “I’m not so sure.” he counters, which draws Tom’s attention over to him at last. “Lucius Malfoy gave the Diary away just to save his own neck. I can’t see Voldemort risking that happening again.”

“Gave it away?” Tom questions, which reminds Harry that while he obviously knows that the Diary was destroyed, and at Harry’s hand no less, Tom doesn’t actually know all the details.

So, Harry explains.

“Yeah, the Ministry was doing all these raids the summer before my second year, trying to sniff out dark or cursed objects that could potentially be harmful to muggles, or something. I accidentally landed in the wrong Floo grate and overheard Lucius Malfoy telling the owner at Borgin and Burkes about it whilst he was there trying to sell off some of his belongings. Anyway, later on when we were all in Flourish and Blotts we ran into the Malfoy’s again and there was a bit of a scuffle between Lucius and Mr Weasley. Somehow in the confusion Malfoy managed to slip the Diary into Ginny’s cauldron. It then went on to possess her all of that year and then nearly drained her completely, if it weren’t for me and Ron going after her. That’s when I first met you, or a version of you at least, before you tried to kill me by setting the Basilisk on me.”

Tom is glaringly quiet once Harry has finished talking, breathing shallowly through his nose while his face falls into a fierce scowl. Without his glasses he can’t tell exactly what expression has painted itself there, fury or betrayal or hurt, but Harry guesses hearing that a piece of his soul had been so easily discarded isn’t pleasant to hear about, especially as it had resulted in its destruction.

“I see.” Is all Tom ends up saying, short and curt as he turns back to his wall, scribbling something onto one his pages and murmuring a wandless drying charm afterwards. He steps back again with a sigh, stroking over his chin with the backs of his knuckles.

“Nevertheless, those three aren’t the main focus point right now. We know the Cup and the Diadem are definitely Horcrux four and five, we just don’t know where they are. There’s also the mystery sixth and final Horcrux, but quite honestly I don’t think we’ll make much progress on trying to figure that one out, not without finding the Cup or the Diadem first so as to gain the memories from the soul inside, like we did with the Locket.”

“Better to start with what we know.” Harry reasons, receiving a nod in return.

“Exactly. So, for locations, I’ve made a starting list.” He unsticks one of the pages from the wall and offers it out to Harry.

Overly aware that he was still standing in his baggy, holey pyjamas and didn't even have his glasses on, Harry quickly darts across the landing to his room so he can change, pulling on the first clothes he sees and grabbing up his glasses as well as his wand.

Tom snorts when he comes hurrying back in.

“Your shirt is on back to front.” He flicks the label sticking out under Harry’s chin with amusement. With a fierce flush of embarrassment, Harry yanks his arms in so he can twist it around properly.

“The list?” He prompts with a cough, getting them back on track. Tom hands him the paper and Harry takes it this time, running his gaze down the page of neat swirling handwriting.

“We already know that Voldemort can be quite sentimental when deciding on where to hide his soul, as seen with myself in the shack of my magical family, as well as the cave from my childhood. So in keeping with that theme, these are the few other possible places that a Horcrux could be hidden.”

Harry reads over the list, chewing on his lip as he goes.

Hogwarts - Forbidden Forest, Black Lake, the Chamber, Room of Hidden things?
London itself - Diagon or Knockturn Alley? Gringotts - refused to let me open my own vault though, still not forgiven them for that.
Wool’s - unlikely, but worth checking as a place of birth. Place of rebirth?? Ask Harry.
Closest Knights - Malfoy, Lestrange, Avery, Rosier.

“Some of these will be almost impossible to check.”

Hogwarts namely, but Gringotts as well. Harry is beyond curious about the little added note beside that bank. Why would they refuse Tom his own vault?

“There is that. I had hoped we’d have more time at Hogwarts before we departed, but in the event that a Horcrux is there, Voldemort having control over the school means it likely won’t be moved. It doesn't help us get to it, but it’s something.”

“Do you think there is one there?” Harry asks. Tilting his head to the side, Tom sighs and his gaze goes vacant again, his mind clearly elsewhere.

“Hogwarts was the first place I truly felt at home. Not belonging as such, as I never felt I fit in with the rest of my peers, but nothing has ever compared to the feeling of being there surrounded by her history and magic. I discovered my heritage there, came into my power. There were low moments of course, but I detested the idea of never returning. I even..” Tom pauses, turns his face away. “I wanted to be a Professor, for a time. It was a childish dream, one born more out of a desire to stay at Hogwarts than to actually teach.”

Tom draws himself up with a shake, clearing his throat. “Yes. I really do think Voldemort would wish to store a piece of his soul there, which makes things harder for us. That’s why we should start simpler and closer. While I severely doubt he chose to leave one there, as I know I wouldn't, we can’t rule Wool’s out without knowing for sure. That’s where we should go first.”

Harry nods slowly, “Alright. Today?” his heart jumps with excitement.

It had been ages since he’d left the house. Not since they went back to Privet Drive and then ended up at the Tonks’ - which was weeks ago now! The last time he’d gone such a long stretch of time stuck indoors was back when he was little and being shoved into his cupboard for weeks on end every time he had a burst of ‘freakishness’ but even then his relatives had to let him out for school. He didn’t know how Sirius had managed being cooped up for so long, and regret stabs through him anew to think of how little he reached out to his Godfather during that time, not knowing their days were numbered.

Harry digs his nails into the meat of his palms, willing the grief away for later. Now wasn’t the time to be dwelling on all of his mistakes regarding Sirius. Tom draws his attention back anyway with a shake of his head, slipping the page out of Harry’s grasp so he can re-stick it to his wall.

“Before we go anywhere we need to make sure you can confidently Apparate. We shouldn't run into any issues by going to Wool’s, but I also know that where you go, so too comes trouble. I need to know that you can escape if we get separated or if I become incapacitated for any reason.”

Like last time, he doesn’t say and Harry wisely doesn’t bring it up either. Still, returning to the topic of Apparition has him automatically cringing away, remembering just how many failed talleys had ended up on Kreacher’s stupid board at the end of his session in the kitchen. He slumps down on Tom’s bed so he can sprawl out on his back, closing his eyes as shame washes over him.

“I tried while I was waiting for you to wake up, but I didn’t get anywhere. It’s like I know what I want to achieve but the magic won't answer.”

He should’ve tried harder, shouldn't have given up so easily and let Kreacher’s teasing get to him. Now they’d be hanging around waiting for him to get it right before they could go out to find the Horcruxes, which in turn left people in danger as Voldemort continued on his war path. The bed shifts as Tom sits down next to him, laying on his back alongside Harry so their arms brush and press together. That simple touch, so easily given and reassuring, brings Harry out of his spiraling thoughts before it can fully take him under.

“Don’t fret so much, Harry. I’ll help you. That does bring me to my next point however.”

“What point is that?”

“Lessons. It would be in our best interest to come up with a study plan-” Harry whips his head around to stare despairingly at Tom, bringing their faces so close together that Harry can feel the others breath hot on his cheek. “Don’t pout, dear. It’s a good idea; you’ve only got five years of education behind you and I was stuck in a Ring for fifty years. We need to be certain we’re prepared and not limited by lack of spell knowledge.”

“I got away from Voldemort using only an Expelliarmus before.” Harry points out sulkily. Tom’s eyes drill into his, hot and heavy like a physical touch as he studies Harry carefully. It’s completely distracting.

“You disarmed Voldemort with an Expelliarmus? When?”

Harry stumbles over his words, “Uh, well, not exactly disarmed him, per say. It was at the end of my fourth year, during the Third task of this tournament I’d been forced into doing - anyway. Voldemort’s follower who had been posing as the defense teacher all year rigged the Cup into being a Portkey, so I ended up in this graveyard. He forced me into the ritual that allowed him to gain his body back, which I guess answers your question about where he was reborn.”

“And then?” Tom says quietly.

“He..” Harry pauses, remembering Cedric’s face, the way his eyes went flat and lifeless in death. He swallows thickly, chewing the skin of his lip. “The other Hogwarts champion, the one that was meant to be the only champion.. He was with me, we were going to share the prize. One of Voldemort’s followers, the same one who betrayed my parents - he killed him. Then he tied me to your father’s headstone and took my blood. Voldemort was reborn and he was going to kill me, but he made a mistake.”

At this, Harry attempts to smile, even though at the time it was the single most terrified he’d ever felt, the most hopeless.

“He flaunted.” he says, turning back to grin at Tom who’s watching him with bated breath. “He summoned a few of his followers and chewed them out, then made them all watch as he decided to duel me before killing me. Wanted to play with me one last time, I suppose. That’s when I used Expelliarmus against him. Our wands connected and it distracted him long enough that I could get back to the Portkey and escape.”

“Connected?”

Harry shrugs, “Brother wands, remember? I told you that when I gave you mine. Dumbledore said that because the feathers inside them both came from the same Phoenix, they don’t like being turned against each other with violence. Voldemort cast the killing curse and I cast Expelliarmus and they connected in the middle, creating this golden dome sort of thing."

Tom looks at him like he’s never seen him before, lips parted in shock or wonder as he processes what he’d just heard. When he does speak, his tone is loaded with a sense of awe that Harry can’t help but squirm at hearing, warmth tingling in his belly.

“You are remarkable, Harry Potter.”

Harry’s breath catches in his throat and he finds himself holding his body tense and still as he and Tom just look at each other, red tinged brown melting into green like nothing else existed outside of the other. Tom shifts an inch closer, the point of his nose nearly brushing Harry’s as he stares and stares and stares. Those eyes flick down, a quick flicker of his lashes dipping in a flash, but still Harry finds himself gulping, heart racing as he waits for something to happen.

Instead, Tom moves away. The air between them snaps and deflates and Harry doesn't know if it’s relief or disappointment that washes over him as Tom sits up, the haze of his thoughts clearing as soon as there's more space between them. He doesn’t go far though, turning to look over his shoulder at Harry with that usual smirk painted in place.

“You’ve led me astray from my topic.”

“Sorry.” Harry mutters, hoping the heat he can feel lingering in his cheeks isn’t too noticeable.

Going by the way that smirk only grows, Harry is out of luck. Nothing new there. Tom laughs and waves his apology off, getting back to what they’d initially been talking about.

“Impressive as the feat was, you didn’t actually know that your wands would connect like that and so I fear your argument is null, dear. A second year disarming charm can’t be your default. That’s why I propose we set some time aside each day to go over the sixth and seventh year Defense books at least, as well as Charms and Potions. I’m sure there’ll be some old textbooks around the house somewhere, as well as some others that could help us.”

“Potions?” Harry moans with disgust. He hated Potions.

“Not a fan of brewing, Harry?”

He mutters “Not a fan of Snape more like.”

‘Hmm. Understandable. I’ll take charge then, if I must. It’ll benefit us to have certain Potions on hand though, blood-replenishers, pain relievers, poisons, things like that.”

“Poison?!” Harry cries, thinking he’d misheard.

“It never hurts to be prepared.” Is all Tom says, deliberately blithe.

“Alright,” Harry sighs, “-to the studying, not the poison, although I’m sure I can’t stop you doing that. Making sure we’re up to standard on our spells makes sense.” The idea of sitting pouring over dusty books for hours on end didn’t exactly fill him with excitement, but he could see the logic in it. Besides, maybe Tom would want to practise duel. That would be a bit more fun.

“You’re overjoyed, I can tell.” Tom titters. He reaches out and smoothes the pad of his thumb over the frown lines that had bunched up between his eyebrows, repeating the movement until Harry relaxes his face once more. “We’ll see if we can find the books later. Let’s see where you’re at with your Apparating first.”

Reeling from the touch, Harry can only watch as Tom strides out of the room with long, purposeful strides, chuckling all the while. His heart pulses, blooming and buoyant and happy. Harry rolls over so he can smother the no doubt goofy grin he’s got on his face into the blankets underneath him, and jolts in surprise when Tom’s voice calls out from somewhere out in the hall.

“Come on, Harry!”

He jumps to his feet and follows.

By the time lunchtime rolls around however, every trace of his earlier giddy joy has evaporated, taken over by frustration and exhaustion as he continues to fail at moving from out of the chalk drawn circle. He’s dripping with sweat and sickeningly dizzy from all the spinning, his vision threatening to give up on him as it tunnels and darkens.

Harry takes a faltering breath, blinking the spots away as he tenses up, ready to try again just as Tom pushes away from the counter he’d been leaning back against this whole time, coaching Harry and watching him with that heavy, all consuming gaze of his. He walks over to Harry and stops just in front of him, jaw set firmly.

“Let’s call it a day-”

“No,” Harry protests immediately. “Let me try again.”

“Any more and you’ll Splinch. You’ve tried enough.”

Tom doesn’t let him argue further, already bringing his wand out to clean away the chalk circles on the floor, then hovering the table and chairs back into place. The temptation of the chairs in front of him is too strong to resist, so Harry drops down into the nearest one and allows his body to sag and deflate, feeling fed up and humiliated.

He’d not moved even once! What a sorry excuse for a wizard. He closes his eyes not wanting to see the disappointment on Tom’s face, listening instead as the boy moves about the kitchen behind him, glassware clinking together followed by the rush of juice being poured.

“You’re being too hard on yourself.” Tom starts, footsteps sounding on the stone floor as he comes over to sit beside Harry, placing the drinks on the table in front of them with a thunk. Harry still doesn’t open his eyes.

“I need to be able to do it sooner rather than later or we’ll never get anywhere. Literally. I don’t understand why I can’t seem to crack it.” He replies grimly.

Tom takes a drink, swallowing noisily in the quiet of the room.

“Well for one, learning anything under duress usually doesn't go well, Apparition especially. You’ll never get it when you want it so bad. For another, the lessons they provide in sixth year are usually spread out over multiple weeks anyway, limited to one hour slots at that. No one gets it only a week into trying, Harry. No one. You’ll get it.”

At last Harry opens his eyes, looking over at Tom who is already staring back at him. He seems genuine in his reassurance, so although the lack of success still rankles at him, Harry lets some of his mopiness go. He reaches out for his own juice and drains it in a single gulp.

Once they’ve had lunch, and when Harry doesn't feel on the edge of collapsing anymore, he leads Tom up to the third floor where the Master suite is. He doesn’t think he’s ever stepped foot in the rooms on this level, but he knows there’s a Study up here absolutely teeming with books because Hermione had gone on about it constantly. Sirius had told her to keep away from them, mumbling something along the lines of the dark magic tainting her core. Obviously Hermione didn’t take being told not to read books well at all, as she’d moaned his and Ron’s ears off about it the entire summer.

It seemed as good a place as any to start.

The door falls open silently, the room beyond covered floor to ceiling in dust and cobwebs, thicker than that of the rest of the house when they’d first arrived. Harry wonders when it was exactly that someone was last in here. Before Sirius escaped Azkaban?

“So this was Orion’s study,” Tom muses, clearing the mess away with an easy swipe of his wand. “Surprisingly subtle.”

Harry looks around the room, searching for this ‘subtle’ that Tom spoke of. It seemed to him like it was just as suitably pretentious for the Pure-blooded wizard it belonged to, but then again, what did he know? Sirius had rarely mentioned his father, and it wasn’t like Harry had ever actually met the man to know what was subtle for him or not.

“He was in your year then? Orion?” Harry asks, eager to hear anything Tom had to offer of his own life, before Horcruxes and Voldemort came along.

“Below actually, by two years. His sister Lucretia and his cousin Alphard were in my year though. Then there was Walburga, his other cousin and future spouse, who was in the year above.”

Harry racks his brain. “I think I've heard of Alphard. Sirius mentioned him a few times, said he was the only other decent member of the family-”

“And what would my son know about being decent?” A voice cuts across, shrill and sharp like a harpy’s cry and shocking the two of them thoroughly. Their wands are wielded in an instant, swinging around the room as they search for the intruder. The study is just as empty as before though, other than Tom and him.

“Homenum Revelio.” Tom casts, sweeping his wand in wide arches around the room. It tells them nothing they didn’t already know, though. There’s no one else here.

Still feeling anxious despite logically knowing the Fidelius couldn't have fallen, Harry pokes his wand at every shadow and nook in the room, the memory of that Boggart that Mrs Wealsey struggled with last summer all too clear in his mind. He rounds the desk, ducking to peer underneath just as the voice comes again.

“Over here.”

He looks up. On the desk, facing towards the corner of the room like a naughty child stuck in time out, sits a picture frame. Harry slides it over and turns it so it faces him, jaw dropping in astonishment when he sees just who it is staring back at him.

It’s Sirius’ mother, Walburga Black.

Her lips twist up disdainfully. “Oh it’s you.” She says it like Harry is nothing but common dirt beneath her boot. To her, he might as well be. “I might have known. No doubt you and my disgrace of a boy had a good laugh about destroying my portrait. Hours that painting took! Only to be ripped to shreds! Is he there with you? I’d like to give him a piece of my mind! Just because I don’t have a voice enhancer charm on this frame, Sirius Orion, does not mean I will not be heard!!”

Harry’s throat closes up and he has to sink down onto the leather armchair that sits half untucked from the desk before his knees give out on him.

She didn’t know.

It was Kreacher who had finally told him what had happened to the old portrait of Walburga, the one from the entry way that used to scream and shriek at the slightest noise. In the days when it was just him here alone, Harry had approached it and peeled back the thick curtains, beyond curious at the uncharacteristic silence, and found the canvas ripped to shreds beyond salvage.

When he’d called on Kreacher to ask him about it, wondering if it was Snape’s doing or someone else's, the elf had told him the tale morosely, stopping to blubber and caress the edge of the now empty frame.

“Was his fault, nasty, blood traitor, misbehaving boy!! My beloved Mistress, attacked by her own son! Now she is being ruined forever, oh Kreacher is heartbroken!”

He’d been near inconsolable after that, so Harry had patted him awkwardly on the shoulder and guided him back into Regulus’ room, letting the matter rest. It hadn’t crossed his mind since, other than feeling relieved at not having to tiptoe around the house all the while.

But now here she was again, only she didn’t know.

“He’s not here.” Harry manages to croak. He doesn’t want to be the one to tell her about Sirius, fearing that if he did she’d laugh and crow and celebrate. He’s not sure he’d be able to take it if she did.

Still, he knows he has to do it, so he clears his throat and tries again. “He’s dead. Sirius died nearly two months ago.”

By some stroke of luck Walburga goes quiet at the news, her eyes falling closed. Tom, who had been standing listening to the conversation from out of sight of the photo, steps closer so that he can lean against the desk, pressing their legs together in quiet comfort.

“Very well,” Walburga says eventually, sighing. “That’s the last of us then. First my Reggie, then Orion. And now Sirius. The most Noble and Ancient House of Black, snuffed out like a Doxy.” She sniffs thickly and Harry horrifically finds his heart panging with empathy despite himself. Vicious and mean as she was, losing the last of your family was an awful thing to go through. That brief sense of commiseration, however, quickly bursts as she gathers herself then continues speaking.

“Why are you here then? Don’t tell me that idiot son of mine left my house to you!” she chortles as if the very idea was hilarious, only quieting when Harry simply rolls his jaw out, annoyed. She gasps in horror. “NO! No, don’t tell me it’s true! The house of my precious, preserved ancestry can’t have been left in the hands of a dirty-blooded orphan, I-I won’t allow it, the house won’t allow it! Get out! Get. OUT! GET OUT OF MY HOUSE RIGHT NOW, YOU NASTY THIEVING RUNT!!”

Several things happen all at once.

For one, Walburga continues her screaming tirade, hurling insults and abuse at Harry whilst leaning against the edge of her frame like she’d love nothing more than to climb out and throttle him. At the same time, the desk, the bookshelves, the entire room around them begins to shake as power surges and grows, seeping out of the very walls to flood into the air around them.

Harry pitches forward in his seat with a yell as the magic tears through him like a whip of electricity, incorporeal hands seeming to be everywhere as it searches and accesses under his buzzing skin, sinking down into his very core. His ears fill with white noise, and though there’s no distinctive voice there to speak, awareness clicks into place somewhere in his mind as Harry suddenly understands what it is he’s feeling.

It’s the magic from before, the magic that guided him through Tom’s Horcrux ritual. It belonged to the house, to Grimmauld, to the Lords and Ladies of the Black family before him that had fed the wardstone their magic, leaving slithers of their life and soul and magic behind for the house to use as its own.

At Walburga’s summons the house had answered, coming to oust the suspected threat on behalf of its previous Mistress. Only it knows Harry, knows exactly who he is in relation to the house of Black, so it retreats and turns on Walburga to scold her.

This is your Lord, It seems to say, possessing no voice and yet perfectly heard by Harry and Walburga alone, not by their ears but by their blood. This is your Lord and you must obey him.

Just as quickly as it had come, the magic recedes. The walls and floor soak it back up and the room is still once more, leaving Harry trembling in the aftermath. Though it hadn’t been painful exactly, he still felt utterly hallowed out, dried up like a towel that had been twisted and wrung. Walburga is similarly affected, clutching at her chest like she’s been wounded as she stares at him blankly, her intolerant tongue rendered silent once more.

Tom clears his throat pointedly. At some point during the excitement he’d clasped his hand on Harry’s shoulder, his fingers digging in so tightly that he expected there to be bruises forming under them already.

“I’m going to need a bit of an explanation as to what in the blazes just happened here.”

The explanation Tom is waiting for doesn’t end up coming until later that evening. Following the events in the study Harry has to go and lie down or he’s worried he’ll explode. The effects of having the entirety of a centuries old magic thrust through him so suddenly had left him feeling quite honestly fragile, and he’s not surprised his lie down turns into an impromptu nap, coming awake again to his room shrouded in darkness.

He staggers his way down to the kitchen just as Kreacher is ringing the bell to summon everyone to the meal. He’s prepared a full Sunday roast, with gravy and Yorkshire puddings and stuffing.

Harry very nearly moans outright, half throwing himself into the nearest seat. Tom comes in a few minutes later, sighing in relief when he sees Harry already at the table. He sits down next to him with much more grace, giving him a once over.

“There you are. I went to wake you up and found your bed empty.”

“S’rry.” Harry mumbles around a mouthful of mash. Tom grimaces slightly but lets it go, taking up his own knife and fork.

“Feeling better? You slept for nearly seven hours.”

“I could sleep for seven more to be honest - I’m exhausted. But I don’t feel as unsteady now, so that’s something.”

Tom hums in reply. Across from them Kreacher eats his own food, picking it up with his hands while he watches them, listening in. Harry thinks back to how upset he’d been about the painting from the entryway being slashed, and wonders why he hadn’t just retrieved the photo from the study. He decides to ask him about it.

“Did you know there’s a picture of Wal-, uh, your Mistress in the study upstairs, Kreacher?”

The elf pauses from sucking the gravy off his fingers, small eyes widening.

“Kreacher was not knowing. Kreacher is not being allowed to go in the Study.”

“Oh,” Harry blinks. “Why not?”

“Master Orion was ordering Kreacher not to.”

“Orion’s dead, elf.” Tom says dispassionately. “Why bother upholding a rule made by a dead man?”

Kreacher hisses at him over the table and Tom glares back, spitefully beginning to speak random words in Parseltongue simply because he knows it upsets him.

“Peas, carrots, potatoes, gravy, stuff-”

The elf yelps and disappears with a crack, taking his plate with him.

Harry sighs, “Do you have to wind him up like that? You’ll give him heart failure one of these days.”

“Good.”

“Tom.” He scolds, kicking at him under the table lightly.

“Harry.” Tom counters with a smile, straightening up so he can hook his foot around Harry’s, giving him a prompting shove. “Forget about the elf and tell me what happened earlier! You’ve kept me wondering for hours! Old Wally left her frame before I could press her for more information.”

Though a lot of it is still confusing to him, Harry does his best to explain.

“During the ritual when the Locket was fighting back, I wanted to help but didn’t know how, so I was just sort of flailing around in a panic. Then I felt this presence come over me, something strong and calm guiding me into a kneel so I could press my hands to the floor like this,” he holds his hands out flat in front of him, “and when I did that presence moved through me. It found my magic and boosted it, which put more power into the circle you drew and gave you the chance to get the upper hand.”

Harry moves some of the food around on his plate, thinking everything over.

“The magic of the house knows me because it holds a part of me, which I gave it when Snape had me touch the main wardstone that first night we got here. When Walburga called on it, which I have no idea how she did since she’s technically dead, the magic thought I was a threat so it checked me over. Once it realised who I was it told Walburga off and left again. I know it sounds mad, but that's what happened. Having all that magic in at once tired me out, but now that I’m rested I can feel it laying dormant in the back of my awareness, like how you know you’re breathing even if you’re not conscious of doing it.”

Tom thinks the words over, eyes gleaming with interest.

“Not mad, though certainly unconventional. I’ll admit I don’t know much about magically sentient buildings, not outside of Hogwarts anyway, but that’s on the extreme end of the scale in regards to stockpiling magic. Walburga still retaining a sense of control over the magic is compelling, though. The craft of magical portraits is quite a guarded one since the enchantments used to replicate a person as they were in life veers quite far into Dark magic. Some of it could even be termed as necromantic, if you’re brave enough to say so. It’s also extremely expensive.”

“I thought it was just a potion that made photos move.” Harry mumbles, thinking of Colin Creevey in the year below.

“For making a short scene repeat or move, it is just a potion. For allowing a portrait or photo to mirror how a person talks and behaves is an entirely different subsection.”

Harry’s head feels heavy with the influx of all the information. He shuts his eyes so he can dig his knuckles into them, rubbing them firmly. “So confusing. How come you know so much anyway, if the subject’s ‘guarded’?”

Tom coughs once, suddenly interested in arranging his knife and fork across the empty plate.

“I read The Picture of Dorian Gray one summer and I thought for a time it could be the answer to my immortality, if only I could imbed my soul into a portrait of myself that would age in my stead. It turned out to be a fruitless venture though, the process far too long winded and complex, and not long after I discovered Horcruxes instead.”

Harry hums in lieu of actually answering, belly satisfyingly full and the calls of sleep beckoning him once more. Tom smiles at him, something like fondness finding a home in the corner creases of his eyes.

“Back to bed with you, I think.”

He’s shuffled back up the stairs by Tom’s wide, warm palm nudging him forward at the small of his back. Harry changes into his pyjamas drowsily, so tired that he can’t even muster enough energy to feel embarrassed as Tom watches him do so. He’s turned back Harry’s covers for him and they sing to him like an angel of God.

Sleep. Sleep. Sleep.

Tom slides the glasses off his face and places them on the bedside with his wand, looming over Harry in the dim light. His blinks become longer, harder to fight through and the last thing Harry is aware of before the arms of oblivion come up to catch him is Tom’s voice by his ear, followed by what might be the the soft press of lips on the skin of his cheek.

“Sleep well my dear Harry.”

Chapter Text

“What are we going to tell her? If she asks about you being here, I mean?” Harry asks as they come to a pause in front of the study door, reaching out to lightly rest his fingers on the handle, but not yet pushing it down. When he glances over at Tom just behind him, all he does is shrug his shoulders casually at the question, seemingly unconcerned.

“We don’t necessarily need to tell her anything.”

“She’ll ask, you know she will.”

Tom inhales, letting the breath out as a sigh, “Then I’ll just tell her the same as I told Henrik, that I’m here from the past.”

His brow arches up doubtfully. “You think she’ll believe it?”

“Unlikely. But just as with Henrik, all it should take is a little convincing.”

He shifts into speaking Parseltongue seamlessly, so natural and smooth that Harry only catches the change because he was already watching Tom’s face closely, and therefore sees how his words don’t match the movement of his lips. He clears his throat and quickly turns away, feeling the balmy weight of Tom’s gaze prickling on the back of his neck like a physical touch.

“If you say so. Come on then, let’s get this over with.”

This, of course, being the two of them returning to the study so that they could do what they’d meant to do the day before, which was to check the bookshelves for anything that could come in useful when they went off searching for the remaining three Horcruxes. Walburga’s outburst - and Harry needing to rest from said outburst - had thrown them off schedule a little, but he wasn’t going to let a few strokes of oil paint with a big mouth boss him around, so he’d suggested to Tom that they come up straight after breakfast to gain back that lost time.

Though he’d muttered something sarcastic about Harry only wanting to avoid his apparition lessons, Tom had agreed without fuss and gladly followed a few paces behind as they climbed the stairs back to the third floor. It was only as he’d come face to face with the closed door, however, that Harry was abruptly reminded of the fact that Tom and Walburga had actually known each other, that they’d existed in the same house and circle of people for their shared school years, that there was history between them, good or bad though it might have been.

While yesterday she had been busy reeling in shock at the revelation of Harry being the new Lord of Black, Walburga was sure to question the appearance of someone who just so happened to look exactly like a fellow classmate from fifty years ago. Sure, she was only a portrait, but they still needed to be careful with what they revealed to her. Portraits could move between frames if they so wished, after all, and Walburga Black was certainly not above being spiteful enough to tell on them to the other portraits in the houses of her descended family, otherwise known as some of Voldemort’s closest supporters.

It would be just his luck to be ratted out by a painting of all things, Harry silently despaired as they stepped back into the study, barely two feet into the room before the frame on the desk was speaking up, her voice snippish with annoyance.

“Is that you, boy? Why are you back already? Leave this room at once!”

Her frame still faced the back wall, so she didn’t see the way Harry immediately rolled his eyes at her, pursing his lips as the form of address brought back all those times his Uncle and Aunt had called him the same thing.

Boy.Harry had always detested that term.

“Don’t call me boy, unless you like the idea of being stuck in the attic for the foreseeable future.” He tells her with feigned pleasantry, not bothering to cross the room or go over to her. He turns to the shelves instead, half aware of Tom at his side as he adds on, “And this is my house now. I’ll go where I please.”

Though she calls him something nasty under her breath, Walburga doesn’t say anything else, thankfully. Harry turns to send Tom a questioning look, one eyebrow raised.

“What were the books we needed to look for?”

Almost before he’s done speaking though, the portrait on the desk is piping up again, butting into the conversation before Tom has a chance to reply.

“Who are you talking to? Who’s with you?”

Harry spins on his heel, glaring over at the desk as his patience thins. “None of your business!”

“It is entirely my business who you bring into my house!” She barks. “Turn me around at once!”

“No, I won’t! How many times must I tell you before you listen - it’s not. your. house!”

“Oh! You wretched little-”

“Ladies, ladies,” Tom cuts in before the squabble could properly gain steam, sounding far too amused as he sharply claps his hands to quiet them. Harry makes sure to give his arm a swift whack for that, highly unimpressed at being lumped in with her, but all he gets is that twice damned smirk in response. He passes by Harry so he can sit down at the desk, completely unruffled and at ease as he sits face to face with Walburga’s portrait for the first time. Harry leans back against the bookshelves behind him with his arms crossed, settling in to observe with reluctant intriguement for how things will play out.

Tom shapes his face into that same pleasantly misleading smile that tricked people into believing he was as harmless as could be, all white teeth and cheek dimples. It seemed only Harry saw the way that smile spread just a little too taut to be genuine, how the glittering of his eyes spoke more of calculation than affability.

“You’ll have to forgive my rudeness for not greeting you properly yesterday, Walburga,” He says, “There was an awful lot going on, I’m sure you understand.”

The woman humphs disagreeably. “I’m sure I don’t, and I’d remind you to not address me by my name when I have given you no permission to do so. Terrible manners, addressing a Lady so familiarly. What’s your family name then? You seem awfully familiar.”

Harry rolls his eyes at the sheer toffee-nosed attitude coming from the woman - trust her to ask for a family name first. Tom doesn’t seem surprised by it though, likely long used to being surrounded by people just like her, and all he does is give her a shark-like smile in return, teeth glinting dangerously.

“My name is Riddle. I’ve no doubt you're quite familiar with it.”

“Riddle… yes, I remember. His son, are you?” Walburga asks, derisive and dismissive all in one, obviously not impressed. But then, she never was with anyone less than pure like her.

“Not quite.”

“Grandson, then. You certainly look the spit of him, so his genes must have been strong, dirty though they were.” She sniffs once she’s said that, and Harry straightens up from his slouch against the bookshelves at once.

Tom barely misses a beat. “Funny. My ‘dirty’ genes didn’t seem to put you off when you attempted to kiss me at Slughorn’s end of year bash in ‘43. In fact, by the way you practically launched yourself at me, I’d have said you wanted nothing more than to know the taste of every single one of my dirty, common genes. My blood and heritage never once stopped me from putting you in your place, Walby. Not then and not now.”

Walburga gasps in shocked outrage, choking and spluttering as she tries to respond.

“W-well I never - I beg your pardon! What in Merlin’s name are you talking about, boy? Of all the, the ludicrous, inflammatory, idiotic lies! I should have you thrown from this house at once-”

“Except you can’t,” Tom cuts in smoothly over Walburga’s rising, panicked voice. “Because Harry is the Master of the house now, not you. You’re nothing more than paint on canvas, and one little charm from me would render you immobile for the rest of your days. We wouldn’t want that now, would we?”

That seems to do it. At hearing the Parseltongue, the irrefutable proof that Tom was who he claimed to be, Walburga doesn’t seem to know what to do other than garble strange cut off noises, her confusion and surprise making her sound something like a strangled fish. Tom watches on with that same pleased look painted across his face, reclining in the chair like he’s a king on his throne.

“But how can it be?” Walburga demands, half hysterical. “If you are Riddle, you should be seventy years old at least by now, not a teenager! And you would not be here, in this house with Potter of all people, it’s, why it’s beyond sense! It’s madness!”

“Well you’d know all about madness, wouldn't you?” Tom says snidely, “I am who I say I am, and it can be because I willed it to be. I appeared here from the past, from nineteen forty five, and though I don’t need to prove it to you of all people, you have my word on my magic that it’s the truth. So mote it be.”

There’s a sudden flare of magic in the room then, bursting up around Tom and swirling in tendrils of dark smoke around his shoulders. As Harry stares, he feels a shift within his own awareness as the house magic sits up to attention as well, keenly observing like a curious cat.

Tom continues speaking, “Since you proved quite plainly yesterday that you still hold a semblance of control over the magic of the house, I’d like a pledge from you in return-”

“What?!” Walburga squawks at once, decidedly unhappy. “I’ll do no such thing! How dare you presume to order me around-”

“You will if you want to keep existing as you have been, leeching on the magic of the house to keep you sentient and somewhat alive. If you don’t do as I’ve asked I’ll simply use your frame as firewood, and then you’ll cease to be anything at all, just as you always feared. I presume the sum for the magic woven into this painting must have been a hefty one. You wouldn’t want to let it all go to waste now, would you?”

Walburga seems to growl, “Oh you’re Tom Riddle all right, Merlin save me! Fine, what is it you want?”

“Your word on your limited magic that you will not share anything you happen to overhear in this house with anyone, including any portraits you might have access to outside of Grimmauld Place.”

Huffing with indignation, Walburga eventually agrees and repeats Tom’s words, ending it with the same declaration that has the house magic pulsing in acknowledgement. Once it’s done she wastes no time in departing her frame for wherever it is she goes to sulk, leaving the study finally and blissfully quiet.

“Nicely done.” Harry offers as he shoves himself away from the bookshelves at last, crossing the threadbare rug until he’s next to the desk. Tom watches his approach keenly, preening smugly at the praise.

“I’m glad you think so, dear.” He replies, parting his legs so that Harry can stand between them and perch on the edge of the desk, a mirror of their positioning from the day before. It feels good to look down at him for once, a strange thrill shooting down his spine as Tom does nothing other than look right back at him, dark eyes as intense as ever. When the weight of it starts to feel too heavy, Harry looks away, settling his gaze on the point of Tom’s chin instead.

“Was it true?” He can’t help but ask, clarifying when all he gets in response is an arched brow. “That she tried to kiss you?”

Tom hums, a low, deep noise that has Harry’s ears going warm. “Yes, it’s true. When I turned her away she threw a huge fit, before changing course and nearly falling to her knees instead, begging me not to say a word about it to anyone, especially Orion. I assured her I wouldn't-”

“But you did anyway,” he finishes for him, rolling his eyes but huffing in amusement. That was a very Tom thing to do.

Unashamed, Tom shrugs a little, rolling his tongue over his bottom lip to wet it. Harry watches it attentively.

“Of course I did. Slytherin, remember? I kept it close to my chest until I needed it, of course, I didn’t just go spouting it out immediately.”

“Uh huh. How noble of you.” Harry deadpans before getting to his feet again. He stretches his arms up above his head with a groan, not having realised how stiff he’d had them crossed for the entire conversation. His shirt lifts with his movement, so he sets it right before looking down at Tom once more.

“About time we got to looking for those books, don’t you think?” He says before moving away, looking back over his shoulder when Tom doesn’t move to follow. “Tom?”

Coming out of his daze, Tom’s lashes flicker over to him. “Pardon?”

Harry waves his hand at the shelves, slightly confused at the sudden blank expression. “Books?”

“Right. Of course.”

Tom gets to his feet to join him, smoothing the lines of his own shirt and trousers as he crosses the room to stand at Harry’s side once more. Whatever mood had struck him has passed as quickly as it came, so Harry lets it slide as Tom begins to direct him on where to look.

“We’ll need to see if we can find the Defence spell books Grade five and above, as well as the same for Potions and Charms. It wouldn’t hurt to do a quick look at Transfiguration too while we’re at it, so maybe..”

The days of August began to drain away like sand running through Harry’s fingers.

They spent most days following Tom’s carefully drawn out schedule, the second version of it seeing as Harry ‘ruined’ the first by scribbling down time for breaks in the margins with his quill. He’d been batted away from the page on account of his ‘horrid handwriting’ and Tom had made a huge fuss about redoing it in his own, neater lettering, but he’d gotten his way in the end so a win was a win.

He’d never been cut out for long hours bent over books and papers, not like Tom seemed to have no problem doing, and after a while Harry would begin to fidget without really meaning to as his attention waned and drifted, legs bouncing and fingers drumming against any available surface. It used to drive Hermione mad and Tom reacted much the same, sometimes going as far as sending him out of the room when he became too distracting.

When they’re not pouring over what feels like a million different books, Tom continues to encourage him through his apparition practice, though it’s not as often as Harry would have liked. Tom wouldn’t budge on the matter though, lecturing him about overtaxing his core and ending up Splinched, so he gave his all on the days he could and even manages to finally leave his circle, although he doesn’t go far and he leaves all of his left arm hair behind, so he hardly counts it as a true success.

The most exciting part of the new routine though, in between all of the books and studying, continuing to try and achieve apparition with semi successful results and late nights spent in front of Tom’s Horcrux wall mulling over their possible options for other locations and vessels, was the dueling.

In a way, they had Harry’s restlessness to thank for it. On that particular day, the two found themselves in the dining room where they did all of the reading and researching, seeing as when they tried to work in the study Walburga had a habit of disrupting them with invasive questioning about what they were doing.

They’d had lunch already and being fed and full had lulled Harry’s overtired brain into a state that made concentrating feel simply impossible. He tried his best, reading and rereading the passage of the book in front of him until the words didn’t even sound real anymore, as long and boring as they were, and at some point without even noticing Harry had begun to tap the end of his wand against the wood.

Tap tap tap tap it went against the table, his other hand buried in the long falls of his hair which he still hadn’t cut, thoughts effectively running away from him into wonderings of if he could manage a shoddy plait out of his hair now that it was even longer, how the word gesticulation sounded like something Seamus had a habit of doing without applying a silencing charm, how there was a piece of lettuce from his sandwich earlier stuck in between his teeth that his tongue just couldn’t quite reach-

Tom had interrupted him by putting down the Potions book he was reading with an aggrieved sigh, shooting Harry a look of such contempt that he immediately froze in place like a spooked rabbit.

“What?” He asked, despite knowing full well.

“You’re insufferable,” Tom replied, though it had been without any actual malice. Simply exasperation.

Harry had squirmed in his seat, sitting up straight before slumping down again with a huff. “I can’t help it! I’ll try to sit still.”

“Don’t bother.” With a sigh of his own, Tom closed the book and got to his feet. Before Harry had the chance to feel bad about putting him off though, he’d tilted his head toward the door pointedly. “Come on.”

Harry scrambled up at once, nearly tripping on the chair leg in his hurry. “Where are we going?”

“We are going to duel. Might as well put all our studying into practice, as well as hopefully burn off some of your infinite energy.”

No more convincing needed, Harry had happily followed Tom up the stairs and into the room he’d previously used to perform the Horcrux ritual, which made sense seeing as it was empty of any furniture. They cleared the chalk marks and the candles away before standing a few feet apart facing each other.

“Ready?” Tom raised his wand up to his face and Harry copied, brimming with barely contained excitement.

“When you are.”

It had been exhilarating from the very first spell, awakening something in Harry that he hadn’t even noticed had fallen silent in the weeks since the Ministry. That heady sense of rush and power as crackles of spellfire filled the air, colours bursting like fireworks between them as they exchanged curses and jinxes, physically dancing light on their feet to dodge and weave whatever their shields missed.

Harry loved dueling, most especially when the stakes weren’t life threatening. He’d loved teaching his friends and peers in the D.A meetings last year, but he’d not had the chance to actually participate in it himself all that often. Being able to do so now, especially against someone who was just as passionate about it as he was, pushed Harry into thinking faster, moving quicker, eager to show his skills and prove his worth.

In between thrown out Impedimenta’s, Flipendo’s and Expelliarmus’ (sue Harry, he’d never stop using the spell), he found himself grinning madly, his excitement returned tenfold in the answering glitter of Tom’s eye as he’d cast a very clever Parsel spell, something Harry would be demanding to be taught as soon as this was over.

And that was just the start. Though he made a point of not giving into Harry’s cajoling everyday, Tom was just as eager to be moving about and showing off with his nonverbal casting skills, something else Harry needed to begin learning, so more often than not they’d end up in a duel before the day was up.

It was the lightest Harry had felt in weeks, which meant of course that he was long overdue for some kind of trouble to come along and mess it all up.

And so it did.

Kreacher finds Harry on his own in the kitchen, polishing off his buttered crumpets as he waits for Tom to emerge from his shower. The elf shuffles in quietly, so quietly in fact that Harry doesn’t even hear him approach, and as a result nearly jumps a mile when he feels one of those long fingers poking him in the middle.

“Ack!” Harry yelps, jerking in surprise as he looks over at the culprit. “Kreacher! You scared me!”

“Sorry Master.” The elf mumbles, voice croaky as usual but hushed and sombre in a way that has Harry sitting up to attention with concern.

“No harm done. Are you okay?”

“Kreacher was going to collect the paper for Master Harry like usual.” The elf starts, bringing the rolled up paper from within the confines of his sheet robe.

“Did something happen?”

“Not to Kreacher. But in the alley, there was..” He trails off, swallowing thickly. Harry twists in his seat so he can face Kreacher head on, alarm bells ringing in his head now.

“What, Kreacher? What was it, who was there?”

“The.. the cold ones, Master. They were being everywhere. Please, Master, don’t make Kreacher go back..”

Harry was perplexed. “Cold ones..?”

Kreacher hands the paper over hesitatingly, so not knowing what else to do, Harry takes it and unrolls it, flattening it out over his lap. The elf whimpers when he sees the image on the front page and it dawns on Harry what he meant by ‘cold’ ones.

Dementors.

“Oh, Kreacher,” Harry sighs empathetically, getting to his feet at once. He throws open the cupboard where he keeps the biscuits, riffling through until he finds an unopened packet of chocolate digestives and turning back to where the elf was still trembling and pale. Harry knew just how he was feeling.

“Here,” He squats down so he’s level with him, holding out the biscuits for him to take. “Make sure you eat plenty, the whole pack even, it should help you feel a bit better. I won’t send you out for the paper anymore either, I promise. We’ll figure something else out when it’s time to restock our food. Go on now.”

Harry watches him until he’s scuttled out of sight, then blows out a sigh as he sits back on his chair with wilting shoulders. Here’s the trouble I was waiting for, he thinks to himself, sliding the paper closer to him on the table top as dread blossoms to life under his skin.

Dementors to be stationed across the country in new security measures, inside source confirms Hogwarts included ahead of term start on Sunday.

Sunday? This Sunday? He looks up to the date in the corner disbelievingly, but lo and behold in the same bold black, August 29th 1996 is printed clear as day. Was that really the date? He casts a tempus but it tells him the same thing, and Harry realises with a horrible, gut wrenching lurch that he’s barely thought about anything outside of Grimmauld Place or Tom in days.

August was nearly over, he had no idea what Ron or Hermione planned to do in regards to returning to Hogwarts, he had no idea if Hermione had ever been forced to apply to the Muggleborn Registry Tom had told him about, had no idea if she was even okay, and what had he been doing? Wasting time instead of practising his apparition, not even attempting to find ways to communicate with his friends and instead having fun when they could be in danger, or hurt, or even -

Harry staggers to his feet, his vision tunneling as the enormity of what he’s done, or rather not done hits him all at once. They could be, Ron and Hermione and the Weasleys could all be dead for all he knew, there hadn’t been any word from them since that note Hermione had sent with Hediwg, which was weeks ago now!

He needed to go to them, needed to know for himself that they were okay.

He’s up the stairs and half way down the entrance hall in half a minute, throat feeling constricted and tight as blind panic builds in his chest, blurring his rationality as all he can think about is getting to his friends. Just as he’s reaching the front door though, a hand suddenly reaches out and clutches him by the elbow, bringing him to a halt in an instant. Harry swings around in a daze, hardly registering the confused look on Tom’s face as he’s too busy attempting to twist his arm out of the hold that anchors him in place.

“Where are you going?” He asks sharply, his gaze darting across Harry’s face in search of answers.

Harry shakes his head helplessly, “I need to go.”

“Go where?” The hand on his elbow tightens in protest, achingly unbreakable.

“Just - let go, let me go,” He strains away again, digging his heels into the floor only for his socks to slip and slide all over the place.

Tom doesn’t let him go of course, and they push and pull at each other grunting and gasping until Harry has his feet kicked out from under him completely, allowing Tom to shove him up against the wall with a slam in the split second he’s unbalanced. It winds him for a moment, and Tom manages to trap him by bracing his taller body against him even as Harry thrashes wildly in outraged complaint.

“Get off me! Tom, let go! I need to - I have to-”

“You’re not going anywhere unless you give me a solid, valid reason, and even then you’re not leaving this house by yourself.”

“Says who?” Harry spits, blazing anger sparking at the controlling way Tom says it, completely swallowing the previous panic he’d been feeling.

He jerks again, throwing his hips forward to try and dislodge the other off him, arching off the wall for added strength - but it’s useless. Tom grits his teeth and readjusts his stance, pressing Harry back into place and catching his wrists up for good measure, pinning him against the clammy walls of the hall until it becomes too uncomfortable for Harry to keep attempting to slip free.

Tom waits him out, all calm and composed in a way that pisses Harry off, glaring at his stupid, perfect face, annoyed with himself when he still feels his heart clench and flutter anyway. When he tilts his chin down so he can look at Harry directly, faces so close together that their heated breaths are shared, he tries to hold onto the annoyance and frustration, stubbornly ignoring how being so close like this has his stomach lurching excitedly.

Quietly yet firmly, Tom answers Harry’s furious question. “Says me. Now, are you going to actually explain why you’ve wound yourself up into this mood of yours or am I going to have to see for myself?”

There’s no explanation needed on what he means by that. Harry closes his eyes immediately, screwing them up tight as if to say No Entry!

“Prick.” He can’t resist adding - because that’s what Tom is. A right great bloody, beautiful prick who Harry can’t stay mad at. Ugh.

“Harry..” Tom croons, knowing even without dipping into Harry’s thoughts that he’s won. To make it worse he moves so that his mouth is closer to Harry’s ear, repeating himself softly “Haarrrryyyy…”

His name being said so warm and close has shivers shooting down his spine like a shock of pure heat that curls up in his gut like a solid weight. Harry squirms and strains again until Tom finally gets the hint and steps back for good, freeing him from his hold yet leaving him cold in his absence. He buries his hands into the front pockets of his jeans before he can do something embarrassing like reach out to pull him close again then opens his eyes to study the dark wood panelling of the walls, contemplating where to start.

“You’re going to say I’m being stupid.”

“Considering you were about to dash out of the house without wearing any shoes, I’m not sure I’d be wrong to assume so.”

“Shut up,” Harry gives him a scathing look, “Do you want to know or not?”

With a barely constrained snigger, Tom steps back over to him so he can set his palm on Harry's shoulder, turning him back in the direction of the stairs down to the kitchen and guiding him along.

“Let me make some tea and then I’ll be all ears.”

So, once Tom has poured both himself and Harry a cup each of steaming tea and he’s settled at the table with his own breakfast in front of him, he waves his hand for Harry to proceed. The paper from Kreacher is still on the table, so Harry picks it up and flattens it out in between them, prodding the cloaked figures in the photo with the end of his finger.

“When Kreacher brought the paper to me earlier he looked pretty troubled, so I asked him what was wrong and he told me that there were Dementors in Diagon Alley. By the look of the paper, the Ministry’s sending them out all over the country for ‘security’.” Harry curls his fingers around the word, “Mostly what I got caught on was that they’re sending them to Hogwarts as well ahead of the term beginning this Sunday.”

He shakes his head, twirling a piece of his hair around his finger anxiously. “It just hit me all at once, you know. I hadn’t even noticed how quickly the time was flying while we’ve been dueling and researching for the Horcruxes. How is it that time of year already? And it just got me thinking about my friends again, how worried I am for them and - I don’t know, I just got overwhelmed with this urge to go to them, to see for myself that they were okay.”

Harry avoids Tom’s gaze as he confesses. “It was stupid of me. If you hadn't stopped me I could have been spotted or captured, and that wouldn't be any help to anyone. I don’t even know what I was trying to do since it’s not like I can apparate yet! But that’s part of the problem!”

“What problem?” Tom prompts when Harry’s pause stretches out.

“The problem is that while my friends and classmates are out there right now, fearing for their lives and their futures, I’ve been here. Safe and sound doing nothing. I’ve not achieved apparition which means we’ve not found the other Horcruxes, which means Voldemort is still out there and people are dying every day that I waste time-”

Tom cuts across him at once. “We’ve not been wasting time, Harry, and you have achieved apparition - ah, ah, don’t try and deny it.” He shushes Harry’s attempts of doing just that, “You moved out of your circle without losing any major body parts, that’s quite literally the definition of a success. Besides, what do you call all the dueling and studying and brewing we’ve been doing? I wouldn’t call that nothing. I’d call it preparing and mastering our spells so that when we do go out and find the last three Horcruxes, which we will, we’ll be suitably prepared for anything we come up against. I’d also call it making sure our bodies and minds are as rested as they can be, since we have no idea what defenses will stand in our path.”

When it’s listed all out like that, so plain and simple, Harry knows that he’s being ridiculous and too hard on himself. They have done all of that and then some, the furthest thing from idle or wasteful, but still - the guilt of not even having thought of Ron or Hermione or any of the others in days eats at him, burrowing itself into his brain like an incurable disease.

It must be written across his face. Tom swipes his wand so that the dirty dishes carry themselves over to the sink before leaning across the table so he can engulf his palms around Harry’s, holding them warm and tight and prompting him to look up from them.

“You’re not responsible for every bloody person in the country, Harry Potter, no matter what anyone has made you believe in the past. You’re doing your best and that’s enough.”

Something tight in his chest seems to uncoil at that, and the version of himself who he carries with him even still - that small, knobbly-kneed child who’d been shoved into a cupboard far too young, hears those words and feels nothing but relief.

Has Harry ever been told that? That he was enough, just as he was? It had never seemed that way, from being not enough for the Dursley’s to love to being not enough for the wizarding world to treat him like a normal person, like just Harry.

The irony of it coming from Tom Riddle of all people isn’t lost on him, but his heart blooms all the same, the life long feeling he’d worn like an old coat beginning to unravel as Tom simply watched him closely, warmly, genuinely.

“Thank you.” Is all Harry can think to say, and they share a small, calm moment just for them before Tom jostles his hands again, clearing his throat.

“As for your friends, let’s look at it rationally. It might be easier to get in touch with them once they’re back at school, more ways for things slipping in unnoticed even under stricter ruling.”

Harry shakes his head at once. “But what if they’re not going back at all? It needs to be before then. Hedwig as an option is out, but maybe I could hire a different Owl from the Post Office on Diagon… it should only be a few Galleons-” He stops speaking at once, a metaphorical light bulb blaring to life in his head as something suddenly occurs to him.

There is a way he can speak to Ron and Hermione without anyone that was watching them finding out, something he’d had in this house the entire time and yet, until this very moment, he’d completely forgotten about.

“Harry?” Tom asks, but Harry is up and on his feet and much like earlier, tearing up the stairs like Death’s Grim is on his heels.

Only this time, instead of heading down the entrance hall towards the front door, he’s taking the stairs two at a time until he’s up on the second floor, bursting through the doorway of his bedroom so fiercely that the bang startles poor Hedwig out of her sleep.

“Sorry, girl, sorry.” Harry throws out distractingly, already crossing over to his dresser and yanking open the drawers so he can rifle through the contents, pulling things out and throwing them over his shoulder.

Tom appears in the doorway only a few moments later, short of breath and completely exasperated.

“What’s gotten into you now? We were in the middle of a conversation!”

Harry begins to explain through his frazzled excitement, continuing to shove his hands into every clothes pocket he comes across as he rambles.

“Last year, when we realised that our defense teacher wouldn’t be teaching us anything useful, Hermione came up with the idea to form a club of sorts, mostly so that us fifth years actually had a chance of passing our exams, though a few of the other years were interested as well. So we met up at the Hogs Head on the first weekend trip to Hogsmeade-”

“The Hogs Head? Why on earth would you meet there?”

“We were trying to be discreet,” Harry defends himself, going over to his trunk now. “It didn’t work anyway because about thirty students turned up, but that’s besides the point. When we knew how many people were interested and we knew where we were going to hold the meetings, Hermione then came up with a way for us to communicate without Umbridge knowing.”

“And what way was that?”

“Fake Galleons. Charmed so that when I changed the markings on the side of my coin to show the date and time of when the next meeting was, everyone who'd received a Galleon would have theirs change to say the same thing. The best bit was that no one would ever question someone having a Galleon in their bag or pocket, so it was basically foolproof.”

Tom is rendered quiet for a second. Harry opens the door to his wardrobe to look in there next so the reply when it comes is muffled through the robes he’d hung up in here.

“That’s.. delightfully clever, actually. Colour me impressed.”

“That’s Hermione for you!” He calls out, “Obviously it all fell apart in the end when we were found out, but as far as I know the trick with the Galleon was never uncovered. I kept mine and I know a few of the other members kept theirs, Ron and Hermione included. So if I could just find where I’ve put it…”

Just then, Harry strikes gold, both literally and figuratively. He crows in delight as he slips the Galleon free from the pocket of his school robe, leaving the shade of wardrobe to spin around to Tom with the coin held up in hand triumphantly.

“Let me have a look.”

Harry happily allows Tom to take it for a minute, twisting it in the light and running his thumb over the markings. He mumbles under his breath as he does so, much to Harry’s amusement.

“Remarkably like the real thing, even down to the weight and feel of it.”

Beaming with pride, Harry gently swipes it back. “I told you, Hermione’s a genius with stuff like this. Watch, I’ll change the message now. I’ll keep it vague to start with just in case someone else answers.”

Wand tip held to the side of the coin, Harry spells his new message onto the metal, hoping to all the powers above that one of them has their coin nearby, that they feel the metal warm with the delivery of his message.

HELLO?

Miraculously his plea to the universe must have been heard, as a handful of minutes later the Galleon warms in his palm, his greeting shifting and disappearing so a new message can replace it.

HELLO? WHO IS THIS?

Harry could leap for joy, ecstatic that something was actually going his way for once. He can’t help the way he bounces on the balls of his feet with excitement, nearly tripping when Tom elbows him to give his reply already.

IT’S LITTLE P

Tom snorts suddenly, opening his mouth no doubt to take the mick out of the nickname only to get distracted by the new message that writes itself, showing the same symbol over and over again.

!!!!!!!!!!!

“It’s one of them, it’s got to be!” Harry shouts, quickly asking who he’s speaking to and holding his breath in the seconds it takes for the markings to shift once more.

IT’S CAT LOVER

The pure ecstatic energy that bursts through him has Harry actually leaping this time, jumping in place and cheering in celebration so much that even the house magic responds to it, flaring the lamps overhead blindly bright to the volume of his joy. Tom watches it all with a half open mouth, fascinated and bewildered in equal measure.

“Cat lover?” He asks once Harry has calmed a bit.

He clears up the confusion. “It’s Hermione!”

The coin warms again and somewhat predictably, Hermione’s onslaught of stereotypical questioning begins to come through, though it cuts off as she evidently runs out of the liminal space provided by the Galleon edge.

ARE YOU OKAY? ARE YOU SAFE? ARE YOU WITH ANYONE OR-

HEALTHY AND WHOLE, NOT ALONE He spells onto the side, waiting a few minutes for it to clear before adding a few of his own questions. R U OK? IS CHUD CAN FAN OK? WHERE R U?

There’s a bit of a longer pause this time and Harry’s heart skips a beat in his chest, some of that giddiness falling flat as he remembers the situation. Tom watches over his shoulder keenly as the answer finally comes through.

IT’S COMPLICATED. C.C FAN IS OKAY, WITH HIM NOW. CAN’T TALK HERE.

Disappointment makes its swift return, his face falling flat even as he understands. A palm sized coin wasn’t the best place to have a meaningful conversation, but this was the first he’d heard from Hermione since that day at the Tonks’ and he’s not ready to stop talking to her now, especially since it sounds like she’s with Ron too.

Before he can try and say something else, to beg her not to go, another message comes through, surprising him.

CAN YOU GET TO A PHONE?

It’s impossible to sit still for the rest of the day as he waits for the cover of night to draw in. Tom had attempted to lead him into studying some more, but had soon given up when he realised Harry’s attention was firmly elsewhere, disappearing instead into the master bathroom to brew in the makeshift potions lab that Kreacher had made for him.

Harry paced, walking the length of the hallways and up and down the stairs continuously, too restless to stop. He cleaned the mess he’d left in his bedroom and snacked lightly at lunchtime, but mostly he just circled the house, watching the hands of the clock as they ticked by tortuously and sluggishly slowly.

He was waiting until eight o’clock so that he and Tom could go out and walk to the end of Claremont Square where the nearest phone box was situated on the corner of the block. Every phone box in London, and presumably elsewhere, had its own unique number, and all he’d have to do once he got there was copy the number onto his coin so that Hermione and Ron could call him off of Arthur Weasley’s phone that he kept in their outside shed.

It was the perfect solution, if a little unorthodox, made possible by the fact that Mr Weasley loved to collect Muggle technology. Harry remembers the first time Ron had tried to call him that summer before third year with amusement, his deafening bellows as he’d made the mistake of telling Uncle Vernon I - WANT - TO - TALK - TO - HARRY - POTTER!

Hopefully Hermione would remind him that shouting wasn't necessary

The hours drag and drag, but at long last the clock in the hall that Harry was now intimately familiar with reads seven forty five, leaving fifteen minutes to prepare. He skips up the stairs and knocks on the door to the potions/bathroom, waiting for Tom’s permission before swinging it open.

“It’s nearly time to go!” He declares just as he notices that Tom is sitting in the bath of all places, a book open on his lap. “What are you doing in there? I thought you were brewing?”

“I just said that so you’d leave me in peace.”

Harry pouts. “Rude.”

Tom gets to his feet, somehow still maintaining his grace and posture as he lifts his leg over the rim of the bath and climbs out, straightening his shirt habitually.

“Your erraticness was annoying me.”

“I-” Harry stops, thinks about it. “Actually, yeah, fair enough. You know you don’t need to come with me if you don’t want to.”

“I’m coming and you can’t stop me.” Tom insists at once, ushering Harry back so they can leave the room. “Let’s go, we need to make sure we’re well disillusioned even if it is only down the road.”

“Actually, I have something I’ve been meaning to show you that might come in useful.”

Appropriately intrigued, Tom follows as Harry leads them into his bedroom once more, observing as he kneels down and reaches under his bed for the bag containing his most special items. There had been a few additions to it since, the letter from Dumbledore and the files about his Parents’ and Sirius’ wills, but otherwise it was the same few things that Harry held dearest. The photo album Hagrid had gifted to him, the shard of mirror that still hurt to look at sometimes, the folded up Marauders Map and -

The cloak is as cool and silky to the touch as Harry had always known it to be, though as soon as his fingers brush against it his heart begins to thrum madly, likely from his anticipation for speaking to his friends again. He stands up with his Invisibility Cloak held gently in front of him, thumbs smoothing over its fabric as he faces Tom and explains a little sheepishly.

“This is probably the longest I’ve gone without wearing it, which is part of the reason why it’s only just now I’m telling you about it. This belonged to my dad, and apparently it’s been in the Potter family for generations. It’s one of my only connections to him…” He clears the lump in his throat, moving on hastily. “Anyway, it’s an Invisibility Cloak, one of the very best out there according to everyone who’s ever seen it. We’ll still need to apply the usual spells to cover our footsteps and whatnot, but it’s helped me stay perfectly hidden loads of times before.”

“You’ve been holding out on me,” Tom says, voice distinctively impressed as he pinches the cloak between his fingers to feel it. “It looks a little small though. Are you sure we’ll both fit?”

Face warming, Harry nods his head. “It should be fine if we huddle. Shall we go?”

They cover themselves with the usual notice-me-nots and Muffliato’s before Harry throws the cloak over their shoulders at the front door. Tom slouches his shoulders down a little so as to cover more of their ankles, winding his arm around Harry’s waist and enveloping him in a half hug.

“Covers us better this way.” He reasons, though Harry wasn’t complaining. “You have the coin?”

“Right here.”

“Let’s go then.”

It’s not raining for once as they open the door and step out onto the front step, though going off of the puddles reflecting the orangey glow of the streetlamps it clearly had been at some point. The cool air helps sooth Harry’s balmy skin as they carefully step down onto the path, steps kept carefully in synchronicity together. There’s no one other than them about for now, though there's the typical buzz of London noises all around them - a siren screaming it’s head off in the distance, a couple shouting so loudly that their shrill voices echo off the houses, a drunkard singing off key as he stumbles to a bus stop.

It dawns on him as they walk just how long it’s been since he was properly outside like this, the fresh air kissing him all over, the smell of the rain on the pavement, irony and tangy. When was the last time he spent so long indoors? Back when he was younger maybe, shoved into his cupboard for something no doubt.

He almost wants to prolong the walk just to soak up a bit more of the night air, but a church bell tolls somewhere nearby as it strikes on the eighth hour, so he picks up the pace with Tom at his side until they’re squashing into the phone box side by side.

Tom applies a few more charms around them as Harry looks for the number to give Hermione, spelling them onto the coin and then hovering his hand over the plastic receiver eagerly.

Brrrring brrrring! Brrrring brrrring!

Harry jumps a little at the volume but picks it up at once, holding it up to his right ear so that Tom is able to listen as well.

He swallows thickly, wetting his lips. “Hello?”

Two sets of gusty, relieved sighs meet his ears and then Ron’s voice is travelling down the line as he exclaims victoriously “It’s him! It’s Harry!!”

Hermione shushes him but it’s clear to see she’s just as joyous. “Oh Harry, it's so wonderful to hear your voice again!!”

He laughs into the phone, “I’ve only said hello so far! But it’s good to hear your voices too, you have no idea!”

“Of course we have an idea! It’s been awful not being able to speak to you, we’ve all been worried sick. You’re not out on your own are you? You have to be careful Harry.” Hermione frets, Ron humming in agreement in the background.

Harry glances at Tom. “Uh, no, I’m not on my own. Anyway I’ve been more worried about you! What’s been going on at your end? I heard about the Registry, it’s absolutely disgusting what they’re doing!”

There’s a scuffling noise through the phone as one or both of them move about on the other end, the rustling of their clothes loud in Harry’s ear.

“It was terrible,” Hermione starts, her usual proud voice wavering as she recounts what happened. “I’d gone back home a few days after we last saw you, after Hedwig brought your letter - I’m so sorry about that, by the way, you must have thought the worst had happened!”

Harry reassures her not to worry and urges her to continue, which she does after taking another shaky breath.

“It was fine for a few days, or as fine as things could be, and then people started appearing over the road, watching our house all hours of the day. Mum and Dad were so frightened, but then -” Her breath catches and Harry hears her whimper miserably even as the phone rustles noisily again.

He waits anxiously, pulse racing. It’s Ron’s voice that comes through next, taking over while Hermione sniffles in the background.

“A bunch of ‘officials’ broke into the house and dragged Hermione to the Ministry so they could do the blood test on her. Dad saw them taking her through the Atrium and rushed after her, and turns out by some stroke of luck one of Mum’s great, great second aunts or something is a squib related to one of Hermione’s cousins. It’s distant, but the connection to magical blood was enough for Dad to step in and claim her as a distant Weasley relative. Only it meant she had to come here straight away and have all contact with her parents cut off if she didn’t want her wand snapped.”

Harry gulps, knocked speechless as what he’s just been told as he heart aches and aches on Hermione’s behalf, barely being able to imagine the pain and terror of being in that situation. He clenches the hand not holding the phone into the fabric of his cloak until his knuckles feel stiff, clinging onto it in an aborted attempt to ground himself.

“That’s.. That’s just..” He doesn’t know what to say. Sorry didn’t feel big enough to express the depth of his anguish for her. Tom presses himself even closer to Harry, his hand coming to rest on Harry’s side comfortingly.

Ron hums sadly. “Yeah, it’s been rough. Some of the Order members came through and spoke to her afterwards about what she wanted them to do, and in the end the best thing for them was to modify their memories so they believed Hermione had just come here early before term. They’re keeping a close eye on them, making sure no one’s trying to hurt them.”

“You’re going back then? To Hogwarts?”

“No other choice mate, not if I want to keep my family out of trouble. Me, Ginny and Hermione are all going back as well as a few others, but I know just as many who have gone into hiding. The Order has been helping with that too, Hermione can explain it better.”

The phone is handed back over to Hermione, her voice less wobbly now. “The Order has been fantastic, truly. After Dumbledore’s death they unanimously decided not to have just one leader, but rather to share the burden out between everyone. When the Prophet got taken over and the raids started to happen with more frequency, Kingsley and a few others came up with an idea called Pods.”

“Pods?” Harry questions.

“They’re specially warded and protected areas all across the country, safe havens basically for anyone who needs shelter and safety, from the Muggle-borns and their families to Goblins, Vampires and Werewolves avoiding recruitment from the Death Eaters. There’s even a place for the kids of Pure-Bloods who don’t agree with their family alliances with You-Know-Who.

Harry can’t help but let out a long whistle, impressed by the amount of work that the Order seems to have done in just a handful of weeks. It’s promising, helps him feel a lot more optimistic about their future.

“That’s amazing. And they’re all over?”

“All over,” Hermione confirms, “There’s limits obviously with how much space the wards can take up before someone might start noticing something so they’ve had to keep it limited to around thirty people in one Pod before it becomes too risky. They’re going to move my parents into one in a few months. Right now the house is still being watched but Kinglsey thinks they’ll be able to move them safely some time around Christmas.”

“They’ll be just fine if the Order’s watching over them,” Harry tries to assure her when he hears the worry creep back into her voice. She sighs heavily, far too trodden down than Hermione deserved to feel. He clenches his hand again.

“They moved your relatives to a Pod down in Kent as soon as they’d got the magic around them established. They were one of the first one’s moved, in case you were worried about them.”

Oh.

His relatives…Harry had thought of them even less than he’d thought of Ron and Hermione. Could he get anymore awful? He thinks back to the last time he’d spoken to his Aunt, when he was meant to go to the shops for eggs and bread and then never returned.

Had she worried about him? Had she wondered what had happened to him, if he was okay?

…Probably not.

Tom nudges him when Harry has been quiet for a few seconds too long.

“That’s good to hear,” He says levelly, hoping Hermione can’t hear the lack of enthusiasm to back up his words. “I appreciate it. So how do people know where to go if the Pods are hidden?”

Thankfully, Hermione doesn’t linger on the awkward lull on Harry’s end.

“It’s been difficult, there’s still so many people out there that we’re not able to get word out to. We started off with printing about it in the Quibbler, vaguely of course, but it’s not the most widespread paper out there and even then it was only available to magical families. The Muggle-Borns we’ve helped so far passed the message along to who they could, and Fred and George have started a radio station to try and get the word out a bit more, but we’re having to tread very carefully so we’re not putting any of the Pods at risk of being found of course.”

“It sounds like you’ve helped loads of people so far though, that’s something to be proud of.” He praises her truthfully. “And everyone else is okay, as much as they can be? The rest of the Weasleys, Remus and Tonks?”

Ron pipes in, “Everyone’s pretty spread out at the minute but we keep up with Remus who keeps us informed about what’s going on. Mum made Fred and George move back in and shut the shop on Diagon, but if anything they’ve helped it feel less depressing being stuck at home. You know them.”

Harry laughs lightly, recalling the Twins and their antics fondly. “Yeah I do. That’s a shame about their shop.”

“It’ll still be there for them when this is all over.” He says in his easy way, a strange optimism that things would turn out okay that Harry had always relied on. “Speaking of, what about you? You’ve had us prattling on and you’ve not told us about what you’ve been doing yet!”

Hermione voices her agreement. “How’s Dumbledore’s mission going? I really wish you’d tell us more about it so we could help!”

Harry’s eyes go distant, stuck on the chipping paint of the phone box and the starburst fractures in one of the glass panels as he weighs up the pros and cons. Tom tries to catch his attention, shaking his head in his peripheral vision.

But this was Ron and Hermione! They’d helped him through everything Harry had faced so far! How is this that much different to facing Basilisks or Trolls or Death Eaters in the Ministry? They’d all been dangerous and deadly too.

“Okay. I can’t tell you the specifics so don’t get too excited,” He warns when Ron and Hermione both inhale eagerly. “Remember the Diary from our second year? Voldemort had spelled it specifically so that as long as the Diary was around, so could he be, in some way or another. It’s why he didn’t die after trying to kill me, because he had that Diary tucked away safely. Dumbledore found out what it really was after I gave it to him that year and he realised that there were more of them. That’s what he left me to do, to find them and get rid of them so that Voldemort can be killed.”

He avoids the annoyed look Tom is giving him, looking out across the still deserted street as he waits for the other two to reply.

“How many are there?”

“Six, or so we hope. There’s three gone already and we know what we’re looking for in regards to the two of the remaining three, just not where they are. As for the last one, it’s still a guessing game on what and where on that one.”

“Sounds complicated.” Ron mumbles and Harry can’t help but laugh. If only they knew the half of it.

“It is, believe me. But while we’ve been trying to come up with ideas on how to get to these last three we’ve been training, a bit like what we were doing with the D.A. Practising spells and what not. I can do a few basic spells non-verbally now!”

“Oh, well done Harry!” Hermione commends just as Ron says, “Wicked, mate!”

Harry grins. “Thanks guys. I’m really close to achieving apparition too, which will be a big turning point in the mission. And now that I’ve remembered the Galleon I can at least keep you more up to date on-”

“Wait!! That reminds me!” Hermione cries out, accidentally cutting Harry off mid sentence. “I told you before didn’t I, Harry, that I was working on a way for us to talk? It got pushed back when everything happened but then when I came to the Burrow and was able to use my wand I finally got around to making them!”

“Make what?” He asks, not following.

“I applied the same Protean Charm that I used for the Galleons onto a pair of notebooks that I had at home, so that when one person writes something in their copy, it’ll appear the same in the other persons! I thought it would be more efficient than a small coin and just as unnoticeable to someone passing by. I’ve had them finished for ages but I’ve just had no way of getting yours to you!”

“That’s perfect!” Harry beams before chewing on his lip, trying to think of a solution. “Maybe you could leave it somewhere at King’s Cross on the first? Then I can go and pick it up?”

Tom snorts, drawing Harry’s attention over to him for the first time. He’s so close, basically plastered to Harry’s side as he’d tilted in close so that the Cloak still covered them, and it briefly distracts him away from the phone still held between them as he weighs in on the conversation for the first time.

“Send the elf.” He says simply, loud enough for the phone to pick it up by the way Harry hears Ron and Hermione gasp in unison.

“Huh?”

“Send Kreacher to collect the book. He can apparate in and out without being detected.”

“Ohhh. Why has that thought never occurred to me?”

Tom grinned and spoke just a bit louder than before, fully intentional. “You don’t want me to answer that question darling.”

The phone box goes very quiet, the only noise belonging to the rustling of the trees beyond the thin, cracked glass and the tinny sound of the phone’s feedback as even Ron and Hermione are shocked and silent. Tom doesn’t seem to be as struck, smiling smugly and nodding down to the phone that’s gone slack in his hand.

He clears his throat, trying not to stutter as he rights the phone back against his ear. “Uhhh right. Y-yeah. I’ll send Kreacher, just let me know when?”

“..sure. Harry, why did he call you-”

Ron calls out suddenly, inadvertently saving Harry from the embarrassment of Hermione’s question.

“Someone’s coming!”

He just about makes out Ginny’s voice saying “Is that you in there, Ron? Is Hermione with you? Don’t tell me you’re snogging again!” before the line cuts out, tinny static blaring in Harry’s ear.

Huh? Snogging? Ron and Hermione had been snogging?!

Harry stares down at the phone completely agog, until Tom slips it out of his hand to place back on the hanger, then guiding him backwards until they’re back in the open air of the street.

“Come on, let’s get back inside.”

The walk back is quick and uninterrupted and before long they’re back in the familiar dark hallway of Grimmauld place. Harry sheds the cloak, watching as Tom stretches his back out casually, like he hadn’t just called Harry - that.

“Feel better now?” He asks, moving further away into the house.

All Harry can do is stare after him, standing on the precipice of some great realisation that he doesn’t know if he’s ready to name yet. He thinks back over the last few weeks, over all the lingering stares and touches, the late nights spent huddled together over a table with their legs tangled together and the groggy early mornings, a tea made just right set in front of him with a hand warm on his back.

Somewhere, somehow, Harry’s heart had slipped and fell, cradled in the hands of someone he’d never in a million years have envisioned for the role.

Tom stops at the foot of the stairs and turns back towards him, the low lighting and the late hour shaping him into something soft, something Harry wants to run to and never let go of.

“Coming, Harry?”

Oh Harry’s in trouble.

“Coming,” Harry calls out and moves away from the door at last to follow Tom up the stairs, leaving a version of himself behind as he does so.

Chapter Text

The candles in the wall sconces continue to gradually burn down as the evening stretches into night, their flickering amber light softening the room in a blanketed, hazy glow. They’re in the sitting room on the first floor where they often find themselves retreating to after dinner, somewhere comfortable to unwind from their days of research and preparation before it was time to separate for bed. Tonight, as he’d come in carrying mugs of hot chocolate and a packet of biscuits to share, Harry had set the record player in the corner to sing them something crooning in the background and was humming vaguely along to it from his position sprawled across the length of one sofa.

Tom sits across from him in a matching armchair, the book he’d brought in with him set aside on the table along with his empty mug in favour of devoting his attention to the figure opposite him instead, studying Harry with far more attentiveness than he could ever hope to hold for any textbook. Going by the delightful pink hue glazed across the highs of his cheeks there was no doubt that Harry knew he was being stared at, but while he squirmed into the sofa cushions every now and then with flustered bashfulness, he didn't otherwise protest to the observation.

So Tom gladly went on with observing, guiding the caressing weight of his gaze over him like a physical touch until he was sure he’d given each part their due focus. The wispy dark hairs of his legs exposed by his pajamas being slightly too short on him following a recent growth spurt, his constantly fidgeting fingers drumming a rhythm on the cushion beneath him, his hair which had grown longer as the weeks of August had passed them by. It fell about now in unruly dark waves that lapped at the edges of his face which Harry would shove back behind his ears every few minutes with sighs of annoyance, only for them to refuse to be contained or controlled and roll back in to kiss at his skin once more.

Tom could understand the desire.

Like he’s heard Tom’s line of thought, Harry brings his spare hand up to reach for the strands framing his face, absently twisting them around his finger as his other hand writes something down on the page of the notebook in his lap. Long lashes flicker behind his glasses with his blinks, lips silently mouthing along to whatever reply he’s received before they twitch up into a smile. At once, Tom finds his own lips falling down into an irked scowl.

That notebook.

He sinks deeper into his chair, previous amiable mood sinking into a sulk as he too looks at the notebook to give it a well deserving glare. He’d never quite felt so hateful towards a book before - besides perhaps the copy of The Water Babies that the other orphans used to throw at Tom’s back when he was younger whilst suggesting he throw himself into the River Thames - but since the moment Harry had received it, via the elf the morning after their trip to the phone box, he had not yet put the bloody thing down.

It was with him at every meal and study session, kept on hand during their duels and the afternoons they spent pouring over the Horcrux wall, and last night Tom had even seen Harry take it with him when he went for a bath. It was only by chance that he’d caught it, coming to the top of the stairs just as Harry was slipping inside with it held in his grasp before shutting the door, the sound of the taps beginning to run coming a second later. Tom had stood frozen in place like he’d been trapped in a body-binding charm, staring at the door as his mind went hurtling into a spiral of barbed, intrusive thoughts, the sharpened edge of a strange hysteria coming over him so strongly that he’d almost thrown a Bombarda at the door there and then.

All he’d been able to think was what if Granger and Weasley had let the girl in on their method of communication, the daughter who hated Tom and clearly wanted Harry for herself? What if it was her Harry had been talking to all this time, her making him laugh and smile and distracting him away from Tom? What would they be talking about while Harry was bare beneath the water, his body likely flushed the same pink that his face went, warm and pliable and inviting-

What if he described himself to her? What if she described herself back?

Tom had remained vigilant just outside the door with his breath held behind his teeth, listening carefully for anything of that sort while his knuckles squeezed tight around his wand, spine held tense and ready to burst into the room at the first hint of his deranged thoughts becoming reality. There had been the occasional pleased sigh accompanied by the water sloshing about while Harry washed himself, and the occasional scratch of a quill that had Tom’s pulse thundering in his ears, but nothing else. Tom retreated on silent feet before he could be discovered loitering reassured for the moment that Harry was still his, though his traitourous mind had continued to torture him with intrusive thoughts long into the night.

Though he’d said it mostly as a claim for Granger and Weasley to hear down the phone line, Tom had hoped that calling Harry darling would have resulted in something happening, a shift or a reaction at least, but Harry behaved just as he had been before like nothing was amiss.

It was infuriating.

Surely it wasn’t just him in this mess, this lurch of feelings and sentiment that had upheaved everything he thought he knew about himself. Tom used to be above the saccharine, sickening nonsense that his peers from Hogwarts wasted their time losing their minds over, chasing skirts and getting into arguments over who wanted who, behaving no better than a coop of hair-brained chickens. Tom had never felt the desire to join in on the madness or even the need to pretend to, often earning himself a few not so quiet whispers about his ‘preferences’ that were easily ignored.

Oh, but Tom was feeling it now, burning through him all hours of the day, clouding his thoughts until all that remained was Harry, Harry, Harry. He’d drown in the heat of it whenever their skin would brush and their eyes caught and locked, coming closer and closer to caving to his hunger every time Harry would smile at him sleepily over his mug of tea or laugh gleefully in his face as they’d dance around throwing spells at one another, their magic just as entwined as they were.

Yet Harry did nothing, leaving Tom reeling in something close to humiliation as he was on the verge of begging for a sign, a hint - anything. There must be some measure of physical attraction, the blushing and countless appreciative looks at his body told Tom that much, but did it run deeper than just surface level admiration like it did for him? With that damned notebook leeching all of his attention over the last few days, there hadn’t been a chance for Tom to try and push for anything further. He held out hope though that things would change back in his favour come this time tomorrow, seeing as it’ll be the first of September

Tom blinks out of his meandering train of thought, coming back to the softly lit sitting room and the object of his musings with a drawn out exhale.

Yes - by tomorrow Granger and Weasley would be far too occupied trying to survive a Hogwarts that was under Voldemort’s control, leaving no time or privacy for conversing with Harry as often as they had been. On top of that, he and Harry had already agreed to go to Wool’s tomorrow as the beginning of their return to searching for the remaining three Horcruxes, which would effectively divert Harry’s thoughts back to where they should be.

Tomorrow, Tom reminds himself just as the grandfather clock chimes out in the hallway, announcing the hour with ten echoing gongs. Harry lifts his head in surprise at the interruption, looking around as if coming suddenly awake with a few rapid blinks.

“Is that the time?” He asks redundantly, answering himself the second after. “It’s later than I realised.”

Tom hums agreeably, not even pretending that he’d been doing anything other than watching Harry as green eyes shift over to him. “Your friends have kept you occupied.” He says airily, sending another squinted look towards the book in question.

Harry either misses it or ignores it, sitting up from his sprawl while closing the book with care, smoothing his thumb over the cover.

“I suppose that’s why Hermione just said goodnight. They’ve got a long day ahead of them tomorrow...” His gaze goes vacant, teeth nibbling on his bottom lip in worry.

Tom doesn’t outwardly roll his eyes though he certainly feels like doing so. More friend discussion? When would it end?! Either way, he draws Harry away from his needless fretting with a question he doesn’t particularly care for the answer to.

“Are they packed?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah - well, Hermione is. She was just telling me that Ron had only just started on his trunk. Dunno why she’s still surprised, to be honest, he always leaves it until the last minute every year.” He laughs lightly to himself. “It’s sort of nice to know that some things never change, even given the circumstances.”

“There’s comfort in routine,” Tom shares wisely. “What about you? Were you a late packer or is that a foolish question?”

Harry smiles and Tom’s pulse skips in his throat which shifts around his reactive swallow.

“Definitely foolish, you should know me better by now.” Harry drawls, sitting forward on the sofa with his elbows cushioned on his knees, hands findling together absently. “I can’t really call any of what I did packing though, more just throwing everything in at once and hoping that it was all there. S’weird not to be doing so right now…”

Tom shifts in his chair noisily before Harry can fall into despairing thoughts again, swapping his crossed leg and smoothing the creases out around his knee.

“I rarely ever unpacked my trunk so there was no last minute panicking for me.”

Harry’s brows lift up, lost behind the sweeping strands of his long fringe. “Oh? How come?”

Tom tilts his head contemplatively. “Hmm, well, the summer after my first year I made the mistake of presuming the other orphans still held onto their fear of me and would not come into my room while I wasn’t in it. I left my trunk under my bed and spent the day picking up all the chores Mrs Cole had seemingly felt I owed her for coming back to Wool’s for the summer and by the time I returned someone had upended it so that everything was everywhere. Not only that but they’d defaced all of my books and school work, ripping them up and leaving the pieces for me to find and exhaust my core trying to wandlessly fix.”

They’d also pissed all over his bed which he’d discovered later that night, and at the time Tom couldn’t stretch his capabilities to clean it as well as fix all of his school work and therefor had to put up with flipping the mattress until Mrs Cole could find him a spare in the cellar, with much aggrieved cursing from the old drunkard.

He doesn’t tell Harry that part though, the old humiliation of it too much to share even now.

“What did you do when you found out who did it?” Harry asks knowingly, already having gathered that Tom wouldn’t have let the act go unpunished. Clever boy.

“It was a boy a few years older than me that did it, by the name of Jeremy Pritchard. Interestingly, he was rather sweet on the daughter of the Baker who supplied the bread to the orphanage, and after watching him for a while I learnt that they were going steady but had to keep it a secret because her father thought she was too young. So on the day that it was my turn to collect the weekly bread supply, I might have let it slip to the Baker what Jeremy had been up to with his youngest child and only daughter, perhaps accidentally implying it as something a little more explicit.”

The Baker had gone red in the face, curtly thanked Tom as he’d taken the money provided by Mrs Cole and shut up shop almost before he was out the door. That same night he’d watched from his attic window with a jubilant smile as Jeremy Pritchard had been dragged into the back alley by the Baker’s three older sons and beaten half to death for ‘besmirching their sister’.

Tom smiles much the same way now just recalling it, before looking back over at Harry who’s squinting at him with heavy suspicion.

“Let’s just say he never touched that girl or my things ever again, and neither did anyone else for that matter. I also got into the habit of locking my trunk before leaving Hogwarts for the summer and eventually the room itself when I learnt how.” He concludes.

Harry says nothing, simply humming like he knew there was more to the story but wasn’t overly bothered to push the issue, a wise choice seeing as the person in question was likely dead or senile by now anyway. Then he stands up with a stretch that exposes the pale skin of his midriff and derails all previous thoughts from Tom’s mind at once.

If he leant forward Tom could lay the palm of his hand against him there, just above Harry’s belly button. His skin looks like it’d be soft, like it’d bruise easily under Tom’s digging fingers, leaving marks in his name for only them to know about. He wonders if he held him there with both hands, whether his fingers would meet in the middle at the back, Harry’s slender waist held caged where it should be forever in Tom’s hold.

Harry lowers his arms and the tempting slither is hidden away again, taking all of his ideas with it. Tom adjusts his legs again, folding his hands firmly over his lap just as Harry gives a sharp wince, one hand caught up in his hair that he tugs on harshly, trying to free it from the knotted mess upon his head.

“Bloody rats nest,” He grumbles, going over to the mirror that hangs on the far wall so he can see what he’s doing. The jostling upsets the glasses on his face into sitting crooked, so he shucks them off as well, complaining all the while. “I swear it’s got a life of its own. Can hair be sentient?”

“No, Harry.” Tom answers obligingly, fondly amused with his ridiculous boy. Harry sees his smirk in the mirror and sticks his tongue out.

“It’s a valid question! Especially when it comes to me, impossibilities just looove being attached to me. Anyway, it’s a good thing it’s not sentient because I’m about this close to vanishing it all off. Do you think anyone would notice if I sent Kreacher to Tesco to buy me a shaver?”

“I think he’d die of a heart attack if he set even a single toe inside of a muggle supermarket, so by all means, go ahead.”

Harry turns on his heel to send the overly imploring look he’s wearing at Tom full on, the lack of glasses opening up his face to showcase it entirely.

“Can’t you go instead? There’s a twenty four hour one around the corner from here, I know because Fred and George snuck out to it one time last year!”

“I will not be doing that,” Tom answers shortly, and Harry immediately opens his mouth to protest so he hurries to carry on speaking over them. “But I will help you cut it. Honestly, you young people. Never heard of a pair of scissors before?”

Overtaken with a burst of sudden chortling, Harry looks at Tom with wide eyed amusement, speaking around his snorting laughter, “Young people?!Who let you out of the nursing home Grandpa?”

“Considering I went to school with several of your peers' actual grandparents, that hits a little close to home.” Tom drawls, holding his hand over his heart as he joins Harry on his feet, chest glowing with pleasure as the other continues to outright guffaw. “Come on then, we might as well get it sorted out tonight.”

They cross the hall into the bathroom where Tom transfigures a sturdy enough stool for Harry to perch on in front of the mirror, calling on the elf to bring him a pair of scissors rather than risking summoning any. He stands behind Harry as he waits for it to return and weaves his fingers carefully through the ends, touching for the sake of touching yet framing it as seeing how much he’d need to take off. It’s soft for all it’s messiness, knotted yes, but not dry or rough to the touch and Tom takes the opportunity given to him like a gluttonous child let loose in a sweet shop, running his fingers over Harry’s scalp and watching as well as feeling the shiver that wracks through his body at the sensation.

Only the elf returning with the scissors has Tom pulling away, their disappointment shared going off of Harry’s sigh and slumped in shoulders. The elf leaves again with a pop, leaving him to turn and give Harry a mocked look of seriousness.

“As impossible as it may seem to believe, I won’t be perfect at this. It’s been a long time since I last had to cut any hair, my own or otherwise.”

Harry’s lips curl up but he doesn’t add any funny little quips as Tom expects. Instead he looks at him with something Tom’s foolish heart wants to call soft adoration and simply says;

“I trust you.”

Tom hopes the way his breath catches in surprise is covered by the rustling of Harry turning in his stool, facing the mirror so Tom can begin while being seemingly unaware of the chaos he’s causing to Tom’s heart rate. The headiness of knowing he held Harry’s trust flooded through him as he took up the scissors to start, distracting enough that he spent far longer than needed just fluffing the hair in preparation, thoughts lost on a river of hope and desire.

He could only imagine what it would be like to hold something else of Harry’s, something far dearer.

As it is, Tom finally begins to cut away the locks with a careful hand, the sound of the scissors snipping loud in the otherwise comfortable quiet of the room. He takes his time with it, both to make sure he’s not messing up anywhere and to make the most of the opportunity to be in Harry’s space like this relatively undisturbed. Every so often he’ll stop and check the mirror for symmetry, murmuring for Harry to let him know if he wanted more off or not, and by the time he’s making the finishing touches the floor is littered in dark splashes of fallen hairs, the back of Harry’s neck visible once more.

He’s left enough length for it to still frame his face handsomely, the rest sitting layered at the sides with choppy little cuts so that the ends weren't so angular and fresh looking, and overall he’s pleased with the outcome. Though he’s sure most of that comes from the fact that it's attached to Harry more than it’s from any actual skill on his part.

“All done.” Tom announces, setting the scissors down on the counter and waiting for Harry to open his eyes from where they’d fallen shut about ten minutes ago. He does so drowsily, blinking slowly and squinting blindly at the mirror for a few seconds before turning to give Tom a grateful smile.

“Thanks, I feel loads better already.” A yawn splits across his face just then, drawing out in a warbled, satisfied sigh as he gets to feet and rolls his shoulders out.

Tom looks over at him indulgently. “Go to bed, Harry. We’ve got a busy day ourselves tomorrow.”

“Mm.” Harry mumbles, looking at the hair still littered on the floor. “Let me clean this-”

“-It’s fine,” Tom interrupts. “ I can do it. Off you go, darling.”

Evidently Harry is tired enough not to protest, to the ushering or the pet name, as he stumbles his way out of the bathroom and up the stairs after yawning again, throwing out a slurred ‘goodnight’ over his shoulder. Tom waits until he hears the click of his door shutting before taking out his wand, so he can summon one of the glass vials he keeps in the potions room on the third floor. Once it’s in hand he then carefully squats down to collect a handful of the chopped hairs from the pile on the floor, securing them safely away before banishing the rest with a silent spell and leaving the bathroom as well.

When he brings himself to completion half an hour later, his skin slicked with sweat as his toes curl and his lungs shudder, Tom does so with those same few strands of hair pressed against his lips, his teeth, his tongue - every sense flooded with nothing but Harry, Harry, Harry.

Harry insists that they wait until after eleven o’clock before going to Wool’s so that he can metaphorically be with Granger and Weasley as they try to prepare for what lies ahead of them, curling himself over the notebook at the kitchen table with a dread filled expression, like they were being sentenced to the gallows rather than the Hogwarts Express.

Time would only tell how similar they would turn out to be, Tom supposed. None of them had any true idea of what to expect from a Hogwarts ruled by Voldemort and led by Snape as Headmaster, with lord knows who else from his followers planted as the other Professors. For the likes of Granger, the gallows might even turn out to be preferred.

The replies had become more sporadic as the morning went on, the two evidently not having the privacy or time to be stopping to answer each of Harry’s worried questions about how things were going. The last they’d shared, that Harry had repeated aloud for Tom’s benefit, was from about fifteen minutes ago, right before their slot for entering the platform through the Floo network was due to open.

Now they both watched on in unified silence as the small cracked clock that Harry had brought down with him from his bedroom ticks over to eleven, hereby marking the official beginning of the new Hogwarts year. The notebook remains blank though and Harry’s anxiety hikes with each new minute that passes without any further news.

“Maybe they’re still trying to find a seat,” He says quietly, not sounding overly convinced. Tom somehow doubts that the train is even half as packed as it would usually be, but he decides not to share that thought, knowing it wouldn't help Harry’s tender emotions at the minute.

Instead, he tries to rationalise by saying, “It’s more likely they’re seated with someone they don’t trust and they can’t risk being seen to write back to you yet. I’m sure they’ll find a few minutes alone at some point to update you.”

“Right...” Harry replies, worrying at his bottom lip with his teeth. After a minute he seems to draw himself up, physically shaking his mood away as he stands from the table. “There’s no point sitting waiting around. Let’s go.”

So they stand in the entrance hall across from one another, a weight solemnity written in Harry’s movements as he dons his cloak and shoes before adding the necessary protective charms and illusions over the top. Tom checks him over for any gaps and allows Harry to do the same for him, turning as one towards the door with their wands within reach up their sleeves.

Outside the air is cool and dry, the sky cloud covered and dull, reflecting the overall mood of the day. Harry gives it a cursory glance as they make sure the door is shut firmly behind them, still shielded by the Fidelius from their place on the top step.

“Think it’ll rain?” He asks.

Tom triple checks their magic is wrapped tightly around them as he answers. “Hard to say. Seems impossible to think the clouds have any more rain to give, the rate they’ve been going. Are you ready? I’ll have to side along you.”

He takes a moment to think, likely picturing the book that he’d left safely upon the table, before giving Tom a nod and taking the hand offered out to him easily.

“Lead the way.”

They spin away with a sharp crack, the view of Claremont Square blurring and twisting into stretched out shapes and colours until they’re spit out again a second later, landing in an alleyway which is somehow familiar and yet completely alien to him, the dual perspectives fighting for dominance as they find their footing. Tom immediately checks for unwanted company, relieved to find their only eyewitness to be a cat that is already scarpering away in fright.

Harry looks around them, taking in the grey bricked walls towering up on either side of them, the odd washing line strung up between windows crisscrossing overhead. One of the windows is open, the sound of some modern atrocity that could hardly be classed as ‘music’ leaking from beyond. Tom keeps his fingers locked firmly with Harry’s, using the hold to tug him along in the right direction.

“Stay close.”

The street beyond the alley is similarly unoccupied but as they travel closer into the main parts of the area Tom had grown up in, it starts becoming more difficult to navigate without accidentally bumping into people who are unaware they’re there, hidden beneath their spells as they are. Tom draws in front of Harry to lead them forward in single file, still keeping their hands tightly held in between them as they weave between adults and children alike, the local cafes and business booming with activity.

Tom takes it all in with a slightly overwhelmed air, the memories of over fifty years ago pushing forward and overlapping with what’s right in front of him. The green grocers that he could recall pilfering apples from was now a second hand bookshop, but the Butchers on the corner was still there even under the same name, though it lacked the same hanging carcasses that he remembered from his childhood.

The Bakery was replaced by a men’s hair salon, and the local hardware store that Tom had never been into was gone completely, but the newsagents, the chemist and the pub were all still there just not quite the same, as if reality had taken a small step to the left therefore leaving Tom in a lurch of finding things familiar and yet not at the same time. If anything it was the atmosphere that had changed the most, both in terms of the mood in the people milling around, and in terms of the literal atmosphere, the lack of engulfing smog and air pollution clouding the buildings and roads and people in sickness and depression.

It was…unnerving, to say the least, and Tom honestly had no idea what to expect of the fate of Wool’s as they left the main street and approached the bend of the road that held many connotations for him.

This was the corner that he took to travel to Diagon Alley that first time, to King’s Cross and the beginning of his life where he was meant to be. But it was also the corner he was sent back to Summer after Summer, the corner he lingered on and looked in the opposite direction with a dream of going anywhere else but here, before trudging onwards anyway. He stops now just before it, before he can round it and confirm whether the building was still there or not, undecided as of yet which outcome he preferred.

Harry waits patiently at his side, stepping in close and giving his hand a squeeze where they’re still welded together.

“Alright?” He asks, without pity or overly sugared sympathy, just - asking.

Tom bolsters his resolve and returns the squeezing contact, nodding his head once firmly.

“Fine.”

They round the bend, two parallel rows of houses running down like train tracks leading to the tunnel at the end, or in this case, the building that used to be Wool’s. The building that is still there. He falters, missing a step in their walk that Harry easily recovers for him, taking over in guiding them down the path towards the same outer walls and metal gates that are imprinted into the deepest caverns on his mind.

Someone had obviously had the sense to splash them with a more inviting paint colour than the previous grey they had been, but they were the same walls underneath. Harry brings them to a halt on the path across from the entrance, staring up at it with a scrutinising expression.

“It’s..”

He trails off and Tom mentally provides a never ending list of suitable descriptors; dismal, grimy, bleak, desolate, a unending blackhole of hopes and dreams-

“-a Dentist’s office.” Harry finishes, wryly amused.

Pardon?

Tom looks up, seeing the sign bolted to the wall that he’d missed before.

Magic Smiles Dental Clinic
Treatment, Oral Hygiene, Cosmetic Dentistry, Orthodontics, Dental Surgery ect.
Email for Appointment at [email protected]

“‘Magic Smiles’? That’s kind of hilarious.” Harry titters while Tom is still trying to process the abomination he’s looking at.

A Dentist… a dentist!

At that moment a middle aged man comes walking out of the doors, his face swelled up to the size of a football which he cradles in one palm miserably, scuffing his feet as he walks away. They both watch as he turns out of sight and disappears, silent until Tom finally finds his words to sarcastically quip;

“Well I see the suffering hasn’t changed much.”

Harry’s laugh is loud and sudden, and when he looks over at Tom his green eyes dance with amusement.

“Not a fan of the remodel?”

“The name alone is offending me on many levels.” Tom says truthfully, turning away from the main entrance and stepping out into the road to cross it, Harry obediently trotting along behind him.

He leads them into the alley that he’d mentioned to Harry yesterday, walking along and stopping to back up at the building now they’re on the rear side of it. And just there, glinting even under the grey cover of the sky, is his attic room window. Tom points it out to Harry.

“That was my room after the Tuberculosis outbreaks boosted the orphanage populations into over capacity. Also because none of the other boys liked sharing a room with me.”

Harry snorts a bit. “I wonder why. Are we going inside? It might be difficult to look around unnoticed.”

Tom considers it, but he knows deep down that there was never really a chance of there being a Horcrux here and so shakes his head.

“I don’t see the need. Coming here was mostly a courtesy call, the easiest place to begin again with the search. There’s nothing of interest to us here.”

“Back home then?” Harry questions as they go back the way they came, out of the alley and past the rows of houses, stepping off of that street corner for what was hopefully the last time ever. Tom’s gaze is drawn down the main street with its businesses new and old, getting caught on the outside seating of a cafe lit by the insistent beams of sun trying to break through the cloud cover.

“It’s past lunch time,” He reasons, not yet willing to put an end to their outing when he knew what was waiting for them upon their return was Harry sitting for hours by his notebook waiting for a reply. “Let’s get something to eat. We’ll go home after.”

Harry partakes in a cold fruit smoothie and a sandwich of something called coronation chicken, and Tom partakes in Harry, mostly. He nurses a glass of water and eats his own sandwich of bacon, lettuce and tomatoes, but mostly what he savours is Harry from where he’s watching the people that pass them by in the street, the stalls that are selling useless little trinkets and woven bags, the kids that ride past on their bicycles all the while hooting and hollering to each other.

The normality of the muggles going about their days and routines must set something in his mind more at ease, as when they do finally return to Grimmauld, Harry apparating them both with an effortlessness rewarded to him from all those hours practising, instead of running straight for the notebook as Tom had presumed he’d do, he turns and looks over his shoulder with a grin.

“Fancy a game of chess? It’s been ages since I’ve played.”

Well. Who would Tom be to deny him?

Though he does of course collect the book and keep it near to him, Harry gives Tom and their game his undivided attention, for all of the good it does him. He’s completely dismal at chess, Tom is delighted to discover, repeatedly sending his pieces right into the wrong positions and still groaning in dismay when Tom’s figures gleefully strike them down.

“It’s just like playing with Ron!” His boy bemoans after the fourth consecutive loss, tossing himself backwards in his chair despairingly. “I don’t know how you two do it!”

“Like most things it all comes with practice,” He says, deciding to ignore that first sentence. He clears the pieces away, sensing that Harry isn’t keen to play (lose) again. Once they’re stored back on the shelf he takes a seat besides him, close enough that their shoulders brush together.

“I suppose.” Harry sighs, rubbing a knuckle under his eyes and exhaling tiredly.

They fall into quiet, only the matching sounds of their breathing disrupting the air between them. Harry leans slightly heavier into Tom’s side, the change perceptible perhaps only to him as it brings the top of his head closer, the sight and smell of his dark hair reminding Tom of his previous nightly activities. He gulps in a way that feels overly audible and tenses his spine, sternly steadying himself.

Control, Riddle.

Thankfully, Harry chooses to fill the silence once more, unbeknownst to the internal struggle happening just beside him.

“How do you feel after today? Going back to where you grew up?”

Tom thinks about it for a second. Seeing the same streets thrown forward fifty years and yet somehow remaining obliquely similar. And Wool’s, his place of beginning, his place of deciding he would have no end.

How does he feel?

“I can’t say my years growing up there didn't leave their lasting affects, but at the end of the day it’s just a place, nothing deeper or more significant than that, and ultimately it means nothing to me now.”

Harry turns so that he’s facing Tom more directly, leaning completely into his arm and into his chest in a half embrace. As casually as he can manage, Tom frees his arm trapped between them and throws it around Harry’s shoulder, drawing him in that little bit closer. His pulse quickens with eager excitement that he tries to squash down, nearly missing Harry’s next words.

“I understand.”

Yes, Tom supposes Harry would understand, perhaps more intimately than anyone else could. He remembers that day when they returned to his own childhood home, remembers seeing the lack of evidence that Harry had ever lived there at all, other than that cupboard under the stairs with the broken toys and scribbled drawing.

Under the stairs. Up in the attic. Harry and Tom.

He finds he doesn’t have anything to add as a follow up, instead tightening his hold around Harry’s shoulder and nudging them that little bit closer. His other hand, which had been resting on his thigh, begins to slowly slide over to the one next to his, creeping across the gap with light, careful movements, wary of approaching Harry’s unspoken limit of how much he’ll allow.

Only Harry doesn’t pull away, doesn’t stiffen or shy or react much at all, content to stay curled into Tom’s side allowing the touch like it’s a normal thing for them. Tom once again finds himself unsure of how to proceed, a feeling that he’s coming to truly detest. Should he move his hand on Harry’s thigh up? No, that would be a little too forward. He settles for beginning to move his thumb back and forth in absent seeming strokes, which Harry seems to enjoy if the resulting peaceful sigh is anything to go off, but before Tom can figure out what his next move should be the bell that the elf uses to call them to dinner rings through the house, effectively bursting the bubble of contentment they’d been luxuriating in.

Of course Harry gets to his feet as casually as anything, grabbing his notebook from the side table as he leaves to follow the call, not even realising that Tom isn’t following behind just yet. He finds he has to take a minute to squeeze his eyes shut tight and imagine all of the different ways he could maim and disfigure that godforsaken elf first, running through each fantasy one by one until it feels less like he’s going to implode.

Skinned alive. Used for Potions. Drained of blood. Fed to the dog in Number 8. Fed to himself.

That last visual was interesting enough that it drew him out of his doom and despair, brows cocking in mild curiosity. How would that work? Imperio the elf and then tell it to chop off his own nose and eat it? How delightfully grisly.

“Tom?” Harry’s voice calls suddenly, sounding as if he’s called from the bottom of the stairs. He jolts in surprise, getting to his feet as he shelves the idea for later.

“Yes, I’m coming.”

Afterwards, they decide to retreat to Tom’s room rather than the sitting room, so that they can revisit their lists of possible Horcrux locations now that Wool’s can be officially crossed off. Harry makes himself comfortable slouching into Tom’s pillows with the notebook kept close in his lap, Tom mirroring him leant up against his baseboard as they volley a few other potential locations back and forth between them, each new suggestion becoming vaguer and more ludicrous.

Amanuensis Quills. The park where Tom had his first tooth knocked out by a stray football. Flourish and Blotts. The alley where Tom had found five crowns hidden amongst the dead leaves-

Harry gives him a funny look and says, “What’s a crown?” which sparks a long winded, convoluted debate about modern money and the dreaded world of inflation - until finally, at half past eight, Harry receives the news he’s been anxiously waiting for.

As soon as the notebook shivers awake in Harry’s lap, indicating a new message within its pages, he’s shooting upright from his relaxed position and practically ripping the front cover off to read the words appearing in front of him. Tom sits up as well, admittedly curious to know how Harry’s friends fared during the train journey and the welcoming feast, what updates they had to give about the castle itself, the staff and other students.

Going by the way Harry’s face pales and drops, it’s nothing pleasant.

“What have they said?” He prods impatiently when Harry doesn’t show any signs of sharing what’s written.

“Sorry.” Harry goes back to the top, eyes skimming and selecting the key bits of information. “There were Death Eaters on the platform that ordered them into specific compartments and were checking over everyone for polyjuice and illusionment charms, as well as all the luggage. Hermione and the other attending Muggleborns were escorted to an entirely separate compartment that was guarded by a Dementor for the whole journey, only allowing them to leave to go to the toilet.”

He flicks the page over and carries on. “They were searched again at the school gates which meant it took even longer for them to arrive at the castle. Snape gave a really minimal speech and…Christ. She said she was handed a badge by McGonagall before leaving the hall with her blood status on, which she and the other Muggleborns are required ‘by law’ to wear.”

Harry gets to his feet, beginning to pace the length of floor between the bed and the window with his hands buried in his hair, torn between rage and hopelessness.

“Why does it feel like no one other than the Order cares about this? How is it that there isn’t more of a backlash, more of an uproar about - literal segregation!”

“People are easily controlled by their fears,” Tom answers logically. “Voldemort included.”

“I hate this.” Harry turns so that he’s leaning with his palms against the top of Tom’s dresser, head bowed and voice weary. “I hate that until we find these Horcruxes, Hermione and so many other innocent people are going to have their life’s changed and tainted forever by him. The kids starting their first year will never get the introduction to Hogwarts that they deserve.”

With a sudden jerk, Harry kicks out at the dresser with a strangled yell, overcome with the injustice of it. The house leaps into life as well, the walls trembling in time to Harry’s body, sensitive to the unhappiness of its master. From the bed where he's still sitting watching him, Tom throws a cautious look to all of his notes that are at risk of fluttering down into a messy heap. He calls Harry’s name until it gets his attention, keeping his tone calm and reassuring.

“Deep breathes, Harry. You’re only getting yourself and the house worked up.”

Mercifully, Harry does as he’s told without arguing, taking a minute to soothe himself with long, deep breaths until he and the walls around them have calmed again. He gives Tom a look as he comes back over to the bed, one full of fiery determination.

“We need to find these Horcruxes, Tom. It needs to be soon.”

“I know. We’re doing the best we can, given the circumstances. Come on, write back to your friends so that they know you’ve received their message.”

Harry seats himself back into the cushions he’d vacated, pinching one of Tom’s spare quills and inkwells from his nightstand to start writing out his reply in that endearingly untidy penmanship of his. Tom gets to his feet and takes the opportunity to write a new addition to the wall, listing every new piece of information in case it should come in useful for them. Harry occasionally throws out additional tidbits that his friends are filling him in with, though much of it is to do with Harry’s classmates who Tom doesn’t know and couldn’t care less about.

Eventually, when Tom is once again trying to theorise on what the last unknown Horcrux could be, Harry closes the book with a sigh and sets it aside.

“She’s gone to bed now.”

Tom hums, only paying half attention. “It’s gotten late.”

He expects Harry to take that moment to get to his feet as well, to wish Tom a goodnight as he trundles over the hall to his own room, but once again he finds himself surprised. Instead, Harry shuffles down even further into Tom’s pillow with a contented sigh.

“Can I just stay here tonight? I’m too comfortable to move.”

Tom blinks at the page in front of him, wondering if he’d heard that correctly. In here? In what way? The room, or Tom’s bed itself?

He turns to stare, almost asking for clarification before his tongue betrays him and blurts out a quick ‘sure’, his throat feeling oddly clammy and tight. Harry doesn’t seem to notice, shedding his glasses and wriggling out of his jeans and jumper almost before Tom can blink, leaving him in just a baggy navy t-shirt. Then he budges up to the far side of the bed, the one closest to the wall, and turns the blankets down to slip underneath.

Still frozen, all Tom can do is put immense effort into not letting his jaw drop as Harry turns to pat the empty space beside him.

“Coming? There’s plenty of room.”

It feels like his brain completely shuts down, running blank as his body astral projects into the stratosphere and scrambling to hold on to his dwindling facade of calm. Tom gapes at Harry like a fool, not entirely convinced he’s not already asleep and dreaming.

Before he can change his mind, Tom begins to unbutton his shirt and trousers to swap them for his pyjamas, hoping that the dim light of the candles hides the way he can’t stop them from shaking. He hears Harry sighing and shifting about, his body moving against Tom’s sheets where last night, last night- Control Riddle, god damn fucking control.

He slips under the covers and extinguishes the last of the dying candles, throwing them into the all consuming cover of darkness. In the sightlessness of it, Tom’s other senses sharpen into overdrive. He can smell the coconut scented shampoo that Harry uses, and the unexplainable skin deep scent that’s just him.

Tom can feel - he can feel everything. The length of his right side is blazing hot where Harry is curled up next to him, his legs brushing against Toms absently, easily.

Through the dark, Harry manages a final sluggish “Night, Tom.” before losing his grip on consciousness, a sweet little snore snuffle sounding only moments later.

He already knows full well that he’s going to stay awake for as long as he possibly can, to soak up every drop of this experience while he has it. Still, Tom turns his face in the darkness until his lips brush against the soft skin of Harry’s temple, pressing them there to murmur the words there like a secret.

“Goodnight, my Harry.”

Granger and Weasley take it in turns to be the one to recount the first days of lessons, Granger’s passages often carrying far more of the detailed, official bits that Tom uses to update his wall, and Weasley’s the more light-hearted, empty gossip that passes through the school halls even now.

The Defence Against the Dark Arts lesson had been taken over by a Death Eater named Amycus Carrow, and the lesson itself was now dubbed as ‘Dark Arts’ instead. Granger wasn’t allowed to perform any of the magic within the class, but going by what Carrow was teaching, this was somewhat of a blessing.

Carrow's twin sister, Alecto, had also been appointed a role and was now the Muggle Studies Professor, which was also now a lesson that every student was required to take. Weasley declared the lessons as nothing more than ‘dung loaded tripe’, while Granger framed them as ‘dangerously false and full of fear mongering’.

There was only one other new addition to the staff roster, and this one when Harry told Tom about it in between their own work, was enough for Tom to choke on his own inhaled spit in surprise.

“Horace Slughorn, did you just say?” He coughs, eye stinging. Harry gives him a look of equal concern and curiosity.

“Yeah. You know him?”

“He was my head of house and Potions Professor back when I was in school.”

Harry’s let's out a low whistle. “He’s pretty old then. Do you think he’s a Death Eater too?”

Tom can’t help but snort. “No, it’s not likely. Horace Slughorn was a collector, not the other way around. He’ll be there for the same reason most of the staff probably are; there was no other choice. Slughorn also has the benefit of having his fingers in every pie, so to speak, which Voldemort is no doubt taking advantage of.”

In terms of their Horcrux search, they go out to a few of the other non magical London locations on their list, but they’re all just as unrewarding as Wool’s was and at this point, it felt more counterproductive going to these place than anything actually worthwhile.

They needed to set their sights bigger, which of course meant that they were more risky and dangerous.

At the end of the first week of September, he and Harry are once again in his room discussing the pros and cons of going to Diagon and Knockturn Alley, when the elf announces its presence at the door with a grating cough.

It doesn’t come in out of the fear it still holds for Tom's person, so Harry goes over to the doorway to talk to the thing.

“Everything alright, Kreacher?”

“Kreacher has been at the market, Master, collecting food and the Wizard’s paper.”

“Oh you didn’t need to do that! I said we’d figure something else out after the Dementor sightings.”

“Kreacher’s job is to serve the Master, even if Kreacher is being scared.” Harry tries to protest, but the elf carries on over him. “The cold ones was not being there and Kreacher was able to get everything Master needs.”

With a sigh, Harry admits defeat. “Well, alright, I’m glad everything went okay. But I still-”

“That is not being everything.”

“Oh?”

Tom turns to look as the elf hands Harry something, a piece of parchment about the size of a flier or a poster. From this angle he can’t quite see what’s printed on it, but as he reads it Harry makes a strange noise in his throat, not quite a gasp but verging close enough to it that Tom's interest is piqued.

“What the...”

Harry doesn't finish his sentence, so Tom steps away from the wall to come up behind him, ignoring how the elf instantly pops away before he can come too close.

“What is it?” He urges, tilting the hand holding the paper so he can see for himself.

Undesirable No. 1
Harry Potter
Contact the Ministry of Magic immediately if you have any information concerning his whereabouts. Failure to report will result in imprisonment.
Reward
10,000 Galleons on his head.

There’s a photo printed above his name, and in it Harry looks nearly identical to how he looked when Tom first met him, if perhaps a little more roughed up, which must mean it was taken fairly recently. He’s staring at the camera with a hollowed out, bleakly dead expression, his eyes completely lifeless in his face. Tom is only thankful that the image isn’t coloured, not wanting to see the lack of light in those green eyes he treasured.

"It must be because I haven't showed up at school. That or Voldemort is really starting to lose his patience not knowing where I've been all this time. This isn't exactly going to make things easier when we're about to go back into the spaces full of Witches and Wizards now looking for me." He rakes his hand roughly through his hair in frustration, groaning a little in complaint.

“We always knew it would be riskier going back into magical communities than it is the muggle ones.” Tom says rationally. “We'll just have to be extra vigilant with our protective shields and make sure we have plenty of escape plans in place before we go anywhere." When Harry still doesn't seem fully convinced, Tom nudges him playfully by the shoulder. "You’re worth a pretty sum, if that helps you feel better. And you're still plenty desirable, don't worry about that.”

Though he means the words completely, Tom keeps his tone teasing and light, burying the deeper meaning behind them. But something in it must have given himself away, because Harry finally looks up at that, the previous troubled expression wiped clean in favour of gazing through his lashes at Tom with an intensity that sets his skin prickling with energy at once, a sense of alarm running through his body.

“Do you?”

“Do I what?” Tom stalls, not quite following. The air seems suddenly stifling as Harry lets the poster drop to the floor, facing him so that they’re standing chest to chest with barely an inch of space left between them.

“Desire me?”

Tom flounders, mouth opening and closing as he desperately tries to capture the line of a single thought that’s not just YESYESYESYES.

He clears his throat once, twice. “I…might.”

Harry smiles just so at the corner of his mouth. “Alright. Are you going to do anything about it? I’ve been dropping hints all bloody week.”

What?

He echoes the thought aloud. “What? When?!”

The intense look shimmers into one of exasperation. “Tom. I’ve barely left your side. I’ve slept in your bed more times than I did my own this week! What did you think I was doing?”

“Being lazy?! How was I meant to know that’s what you were doing!” He’s only just short of starting up a hysteric scream. What is happening right now?

“Well you know now!” Harry counters, a fierce blush taking over his face as some of his previous bravado falters. “So what are you going to do about it!”

Without another seconds pause Tom is moving, darting forward to crowd Harry back until he’s slamming into the doorframe behind him, watching Tom’s approach all the while with a scorching heavy-lidded gaze that taunts him closer, luring him in as effectively as a siren’s call. Hands reach out, Tom’s going into Harry’s hair and under his chin to tip it up while Harry fists his around the material of Tom’s shirt, already arching his neck to meet him halfway when he sweeps down to crash their lips together at last.

It’s immediately hot and dizzying, lips wet and sliding over each other as they tilt their heads in sync to kiss deeper, mouths falling open instinctively. Harry’s moan vibrates out through his own chest and travels into Tom’s where they’re plastered together, so he parts his lips to feed him his own groan of pleasure right back, his tongue following soon after.

His head is spinning, pulse racing and ears ringing with a high pitched shrill that he can’t explain and doesn’t care to try - not when kissing Harry is like drowning in Fiendfyre, like stepping into the centre of the sun itself, drawing him in deeper even as his lungs burn and beg for reprieve. It’s the sweetest torture and Tom has always been greedy; born with a starving heart and an insatiable craving in his soul, so he takes and takes and takes until nothing outside of Harry even registers anymore, time itself ceasing to exist.

Harry gives as good as he gets, sucking and biting on Tom’s lips, his fingernails leaving no doubt permanent crescents in the skin of his sides where he clings on for dear life, but eventually he breaks away to turn his face away and gasp great heaving mouthfuls of air, seemingly unaware that he’s still whining in the back of his throat.

Which is where Tom moves to next, every second his lips aren’t against Harry’s skin feeling like an eternity. He guides his mouth along the sloping columns of his neck down into his clavicle, chasing after more of those breathy sounds of pleasure by stopping to lick, bite and suck every inch of skin until it’s glistening and red. Each mark is a signature in the shape of Tom’s teeth, a sign post declaring his ownership that sets his very blood aflame when he leans back to observe.

Blinking rapidly behind his slightly fogged up glasses, Harry cracks his eyes open to squint at Tom dazedly, the green of them merely a sliver around the blown out black of the centre. He tightens his fingers again, the sting of his nails only exciting Tom further, making him press against Harry that little bit deeper.

“Harry.” He breathes, thoughts still blurred and heavy with desire. He tilts in to rest their sweat-dampened foreheads together, uncaring of how the frame of Harry’s glasses dig and pinch into his cheeks. They stay that way for a while longer, sharing breath in the miniscule space between them while they stare and stare, barely blinking at all.

“Harry.” Tom repeats, the only word he’s currently capable of. There’s no room for anything else - just this boy here in front of him, his darling Harry.

Harry Harry Harry.

“Tom.” Harry sighs in return before moving to slot their lips back together easily, kissing him slow and languid like they’d been doing it all their lives.

Tom’s heart and soul sing, completely euphoric.

My Harry.